


Daydreaming

by verynotconcise



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Mentioned Henry Bowers's Gang, Multi, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Using that tag because of Sonia Kaspbrak and Al Marsh, mentions of bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 115,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26064508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verynotconcise/pseuds/verynotconcise
Summary: “Right. So, anyway. I guess what I’m trying to say is that. Um. Two nights ago I had a dream. And I was pretty fucking sure that it was my soulmate dream, because I had the feeling. Can’t describe it, but I just, you know, knew. Like how you told me you knew about Patty. Yeah. So, the thing is that I didn’t actually get a chance to ask for his name or where he was, or to tell him where I was, or my name. I woke up and I guess I was pretty bummed about it for an entire day, cause I thought that I wasn’t gonna get the chance to see him again. Right? Except that I saw him again.”A soulmate AU where everyone gets one chance to meet their soulmate in a dream. Except Richie.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 51
Kudos: 130





	1. 22

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to finally write this idea that has been wiggling around in my thoughts for 5 years. Thank you S for being the sad soul that reads every single draft I write and listens to all my lengthy rants. You are the gem that keeps me writing.
> 
> Rating will be bumped up in the later chapters and tags will be updated accordingly (I will put warnings in the notes too).

_Dreamers  
_ _They never learn  
_ _They never learn  
_ _Beyond, beyond the point_  
_Of no return  
_ _Of no return_

_(Daydreaming, Radiohead)_

Everything is white.

Well, not really. It _looks_ white, but Richie knows that it isn’t white. It’s nothingness, but the brain perceives it as white because it doesn’t know how to translate nothingness into an image that Richie can see and understand. Thus, white.

He doesn’t know how he knows this either. He’s full of shit most of the time, but this he knows for sure. It’s almost like how he knows that 2+2=4, or that the sun will rise again tomorrow.

Well, maybe not the sun. Induction is difficult. David Hume had a point.

But Richie knows that he’s dreaming. Definitely. The last thing he remembers is Bev throwing him unceremoniously onto his bed, pulling the covers over him and reminding him that the trash bin was on his right, and not his left, so if he was going to puke roll over to his right, please.

And oh, yeah, it’s finals period.

Fuck, it’s finals period. Shit. He really shouldn’t have drank that bottle of Grey Goose tonight.

But he’s dreaming now, anyway. And he really doesn’t know what kind of dream this is, but he has a feeling about this one. He knows, just like how he knows that the white colour of the room is merely a projection, that this dream is different. Something is going to happen. There’s a feeling in his gut that tells him that he should probably be walking forward now, there’s something there for him. Richie spins around on the balls of his feet and sees nothing around anywhere, but hey, what could go wrong?

So he starts walking in the general direction of whatever is in front of him. He doesn’t know which direction he’s even facing. Could be north, could be west, hell, how about south-east? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t have a compass.

Suddenly, there’s a weight in his palm. It’s cool and heavy. Richie looks down and blinks. _Huh_ , there’s a compass in his hand now. Cool. That’s cool. So is this how it works, then? He imagines shit up and it becomes real? God, he’ll need to test that. And with no end to this room in sight, it’s better than nothing, anyway. It’s a dream, maybe a lucid dream, but a dream all the same.

Richie closes his eyes and imagines a door. A black door with a golden knob that’s new and shiny. It’s a knob that’ll be cool to the touch and without a scratch. The black will be matte and without designs or patterns. A plain wooden door, and a golden knob, two feet in front of him. It’ll be taller than him, and a metre and a half in width. He focuses on this mental image of the door, willing it into existence. If it doesn’t appear in front of him, then it’s whatever, but if it does, then holy fucking shit.

He opens his eyes, and the door is already in front of him. A black rectangle against a sea of white.

Richie laughs, shaking his head in disbelief, “Damn. _Wow_. This is some Inception-level shit going on in here.”

He closes the short distance between the door and himself, placing his hand on the doorknob before it occurs to him that he doesn’t know where this door will lead. When he imagined the door, he never imagined what lies behind the door. And _damn it, Richie, should’ve been more thorough._

But nevertheless, the door is there, and Richie has an itch that only opening it can scratch.

He flicks his head before rolling his shoulders. “Come on, Richie. What’s the worst that could happen? A small pomeranian dog sitting behind this door that would transform into the most fucking terrifying one-eyed monster that will eat you up?”

Well, that’s an idea. It’s a scary as fuck idea as well.

“Fuck,” Richie breathes out, holding the doorknob with two hands now. He stares at his hands, wrapped around the circular knob for a long time, feeling trepidation coagulate in the pit of his stomach before he decides to rip the metaphorical bandaid off and just fucking get it over with.

In one swift motion, he twists the knob and pushes the door open.

He’s unprepared for what lies behind the door.

The door opens silently to reveal a small room. It’s a bedroom, obviously, with a bed at the corner next to the opened window. The thin sheet of curtains flutters in the light breeze. Richie can’t feel the breeze, since he isn’t in the room, but it looks like the kind that you can’t get in New York City, what with the concrete jungle and air pollution from the neverending traffic.

The room is tidy and the bed is impeccably made. Books are arranged in order of height on the small shelf above the desk that is lined meticulously with pill bottles, all in different shapes and sizes. There aren’t any posters on the walls or on the cupboards. Compared to Richie’s own room, this room looks sterile, but it’s also lived in, although Richie can’t imagine how it must feel to live in such a neat room.

Most importantly, there’s a man standing in the middle of the room. He’s looking at his bed, his back facing Richie. The man— whose figure is slightly smaller than your average-sized American man— is holding something in his hands. He’s so focused on it that he doesn’t realise that the door is opened, and Richie is staring at him. From the back, his dark brown hair is neatly combed, his polo shirt is tucked into a pair of red shorts _,_ and he’s wearing a fanny pack too.

He looks like a young man with the fashion sense of an old man from the fifties. Richie snorts.

The man turns around. His brown eyes are wide, and his mouth is opened in shock. There’s a moment of silence where the tension between them is so thick that Richie thinks he could literally grab a fistful of tension in his hands.

A smaller part of him wishes it was _sexual_ tension between them because, _wow_ , if this is what his subconscious comes up with then _damn_ does his subconscious work overtime. Despite the fashion disaster, the man is definitely someone that Richie would try to flirt with at a party. Those big eyes of his? And thick eyebrows paired with a strong nose? Those heart shaped lips? Framed by a face that’s just _made_ to be held in Richie’s hands?

_Fuck_ yes.

Richie stands there, awkwardly, trying to say something. If this _is_ his dream, then he could probably make the guy reciprocate his flirting, right? He being the master of his own fate in this dream and all that. Doesn’t matter that this guy doesn’t _actually_ exist, he exists here and now in this dream, and if that’s all Richie can get then he’ll gladly take it. Yes, sir.

So Richie leans an elbow on the door, slanting his body at an angle and tucking a leg behind him, tapping the floor with the tip of his shoe. He rests a cheek on his palm and smirks casually, waggling his brows once at Mister Cutie over here. It’s usually fifty-fifty when Richie does this with other people and Richie sure hopes that Mister Cutie falls into that fifty that likes what they’re seeing.

Richie opens his mouth, trying to do that sexy “Hey.” one-liner, but Mister Cutie beats him to it.

“Hey!” he’s yelling. His brows form an angry line, and his mouth stretches into an even angrier line. He looks _offended_. There’s fire in his eyes and an incoming threat in his voice. And although it’s meant to be scary, all Richie can think of at the moment is the feeling that goes straight through his heart like a sharp knife.

Suddenly, Richie thinks of cupid’s arrow. Because if it’s not cupid’s arrow piercing through his heart and flesh and bone, then what in the ever loving fuck is it?

His palms are starting to sweat in nervousness, and he can feel his heart beating the way it used to when he was a few seconds away from having his face beaten in. Except that it’s not in the bad way, but the _good_ way that Richie hasn’t felt in years. Perhaps never felt at all. It’s all so new to Richie, yet it feels a lot like stumbling on something that belonged to him a long time ago. Something forgotten, now found.

And then Richie looks into Mister Cutie’s eyes again with a newfound realisation.

Oh _fuck_. Jesus christ.

Before Richie manages to get another word, the room begins spinning violently and his stomach is _lurching_ and Richie finds himself staggering out of the doorway and into the room, with the loud beating of his heart thumping painfully in his head. The pain is visceral, and when Richie shuts his eyes, he can almost feel the pain behind his eyelids.

The last thing he sees is the guy’s eyes growing impossibly wider, and he’s moving towards Richie in slow motion. There’s a flash of worry across his handsome features that Richie wants to smooth out. He tries to raise his hands, but it’s faded in front of him, and the guy’s mouth is moving but Richie can’t hear anything else and—

Richie’s eyes fly open, taking a large gulp of air as his heart pounds away in his chest mercilessly.

Despite the way that he’s _still_ catching his breath, or the way that he _should_ be rolling over to his right with the need to dry heave, Richie lies still in his bed. He thinks about the way he should be forgetting the dream, like all the other dreams he’s had. But he doesn’t. The dream comes back to him as clear as day, even more so than some of his own experiences and memories do. He thinks about the room and how the sunlight filters in, he thinks about the vast nothingness that he walked across, he thinks about the man with fire in his eyes.

He knows, without a doubt, that he’s had it. The soulmate dream. The one he’s spent his whole life waiting for, thinking that he’ll never get it. Such privileges didn’t extend to people like him, to _Richie Tozier_. But here he is, with a hand clasped flimsily over his chest.

When he begins to calm down, Richie’s stare zeroes in on the little mouldy spot on his ceiling. It’s black and a little green, and it’s been there since they’ve moved in. Richie calls it Jeff, short for Jeffrey. Jeffrey is something like his best friend, and Jeffrey’s seen a lot of _shit_.

On the good days, Jeffrey sees Richie’s drunken singing and clumsy dancing, and maybe a bit more than that on other days which may or may not involve a wad of tissues, some lube and his laptop. On the bad days, Jeffrey sees Richie’s angry pacing around the room or tears shed in frustration at some stupid, inane thing that happened to be the last straw at the wrong time.

Today when Richie’s eyes fly open, Jeffrey comes into focus, dependable as ever. His breathing is ragged, and as he lies there in his bed, all he says is, “ _Ooooh_ shit, Jeff.”


	2. 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie meets the angry boy with the fanny pack again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW in the end notes

_There’s a gap in between  
_ _There’s a gap where we meet  
_ _Where I end and you begin_

_And I’m sorry for us  
_ _The dinosaurs roam the Earth_  
_The sky turns green  
_ _Where I end and you begin_

_(Where I End And You Begin, Radiohead)_

Richie is leaning against the kitchen sink, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. It’s his third cup of the day. It’s three past two in the afternoon.

He looks down at the black, opaque liquid. A black circle outlined by a thick white between his hands. There are ripples across the surface of his coffee. Richie frowns, squinting at the offensive cup. It’s only after a while that he realises his hands are trembling.

Beverly’s room door opens slowly, protesting the movement loudly in the quiet of the flat. Richie looks up sharply, watching Beverly emerge from her room with disheveled hair and tired eyes. She looks at him briefly before breaking into a large yawn that could split her face into two. Richie’s seen her like that before. It always happens when her deadlines are drawing near. She hasn’t been getting much sleep either.

She totters into the kitchen, taking the empty space next to Richie. Wordlessly, he hands her his cup of coffee which she takes without pause. He hears her blow on it softly before taking three large gulps, handing it back to him again. With her eyes closed, she gropes the cabinets below the counter, pulling out a drawer and feeling for a familiar box in it, half-empty by now. She opens her eyes and quietly pulls out a stick, throws the box back in and picks up the lighter.

Richie turns to her, reaching for the lighter. Her eyes flick up to his in gratitude as a small blue flame whooshes to life at the tip. Cigarette between her lips, she leans in just enough and then pulls away, taking a long, deep breath and releasing it in slow, measured ones.

She passes the cigarette to Richie. He takes a slow drag before returning it to her nimble fingers, covered with charcoal smudges at the bottom.

It’s a ritual by now, unique only to them. Most people who don’t know them might mistake this intimacy for something exclusive to people in romantic relationships, but Beverly and Richie have been through hell and back with each other. Richie thinks that in some ways, that may be more precious than what most married couples have.

“Breakfast of fucking champions,” Richie muses to himself. Bev rolls her eyes, refusing to dignify that with any verbal response. Instead, she stares ahead at the ragged couch across the room. It was still bright red when they purchased it from craigslist early this year, but months of unwashed food and beer stains have dulled its colour. “Long night?”

“Long day?” Bev shoots back, turning around to tap the cigarette into the small trash bin next to the sink.

“Yep,” Richie says, around a mouthful of coffee, “Finally finished with the last paper of my college life, baby. I’m a free man now.”

“Richie, you’re a comms student. You have no idea what it means to be a slave to the school.”

“Hey, you can’t compare our suffering. It’s different. At least you get some hard skills from your design course. All I get is a piece of paper that’s supposed to be worth a few thousand bucks.”

“Pretty sure it’s tens of thousands,” Bev snorts.

“Yeah, that’s like the same thing.”

“Tens of thousands isn’t the same as—” Bev stops herself, sighing tiredly with the cigarette hanging precariously between her slender fingers, “Okay, I’m not going to argue with you. You don’t even pay your school fees.”

“Neither do you,” Richie says, “Fucking scholarship holder.”

“You’re a scholarship holder as well, Rich,” Bev points out.

“No, I _was_ a scholarship holder. Now I’m a free man.” Richie grins at Bev, “How’s that final year project of yours going?”

Bev takes another drag, blowing it out slowly before glancing at Richie. “Shut up.” she says dryly, “It’s going. I submitted my designs last night, so I’m just left with my final presentation next week.”

“That’s surprisingly late.”

“Yeah, that bitch I told you about fractured her left hand and she’s a leftie. So the deadlines got pushed back for everyone in the spirit of fairness.”

“Wow,” Richie whistles slowly, “That’s some power your classmate has.”

“I know I should be thankful that deadlines got extended because of her, but I’m not. It just reeks of so much favouritism that it got extended _because_ it’s her. If I were to break my spine, you can be sure that I’ll still be giving my presentation from the hospital bed or something.”

“Plus, she’s a bitch.”

“Yeah, that too.” Bev says, tapping the cigarette into the trash bin again. “Did you puke into your trash can, by the way?”

“Bev, honey,” Richie drawls, “Would it surprise you if I told you that I was completely not hung over?”

Bev looks up sharply, “Not at all?”

“Nope. I woke up at like, what? 4AM or something, and then had time to revise and get breakfast before my 8AM paper.”

“There’s no way,” Bev laughs, shaking her head. “You were completely gone last night, Rich. I had to drag you to bed— literally, drag you.”

“Yeah, and thanks for that, by the way. What? I’m not being sarcastic. Don’t give me that look. I’m really thanking you for dragging me back to my bed. My back would not survive one night on that couch.”

“I’m glad you know it,” Bev says, bringing the cigarette to her lips and inhaling slowly, blowing it out in a white line wandering randomly in the air. “We should totally replace that couch.”

“The fuck we are _not_.” Richie says, turning to her with an offended look on his face, “That couch is our _baby_ , man. There is no way that we are replacing it.”

“That couch is not _my_ baby. It’s your baby. The only person I’m gonna have a baby with is Ben. Just saying.”

Richie blows a raspberry, putting the cup down on the counter next to him. “Ugh, disgusting. Take your fluffy soulmate love away from me. This is a designated singles only zone, where miserable single losers like me can wallow in self-pity.”

“Come on, Richie, you’re not a miserable single loser.”

“Uh, yes? I am?”

Bev nudges Richie with her elbow, smiling gently at him, “No, you’re not. What do you call your dating adventures, then?”

“Firstly, Bev, they are dating _mis_ adventures. Secondly, I still call that being a miserable single loser.”

“Yeah, but that’s only because you’re stupidly stubborn about it. If you actually tried dating, seriously dating, you’d realise that waiting for your soulmate dream isn’t the end all be all.”

Richie’s face falls, because he’s had his soulmate dream. It came and it’s gone now. Bev’s smile slides off her face when she notices how still Richie has become, and then realisation daunts on her.

“Richie—”

Richie pushes himself off the kitchen counter, walking towards the ugly red couch, adjusting his glasses nervously. “Well, yeah. Uh, about that—”

“Richie—”

“I _think_ that I may have gotten it? But I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty sure that I think that I did? Probably.” glancing back at Bev, he smiles sheepishly, “My soulmate dream, I mean.”

Immediately, Bev jumps off the kitchen counter and throws herself into Richie’s arms. Even if Richie sees her coming, nothing will ever prepare him for the force with which she flings them backwards onto the couch.

“Fucking christ!” Richie hisses, “My back! Jesus. Bev, have some mercy on me, will you?”

Bev lifts herself up to straddle Richie, supporting herself with her palms on his chest. Her shoulder-length red hair flows over her shoulders in waves, framing her heart-shaped face. With their breaths still knocked out, they stare at each other, studying their eyes in deep concentration.

To other people, it might look like the start of something intimate. With the way that Bev sits on Richie’s lap, and the way that Richie steadies her with his hands around her hips. But it’s not sexual, because besides the fact that Bev is already happily attached to her soulmate..

“So, who is he?” Bev asks at last, grinning at Richie.

Richie is gay.

Richie groans, swatting Bev away. “Ugh, come on. What is this? It’s called a _soul_ mate for a reason. Soul, meaning the thing inside your body? Why does my soulmate need to be a guy just because I’m gay?”

“Because if your soulmate wasn’t a guy, you’d have said something by now. You haven’t. So there, mystery solved.” Bev explains easily, gripping Richie’s wrist with a hand. “So who is he? Did you manage to get his name? Or did you manage to arrange a meetup?”

Suddenly, a memory flashes through Richie’s mind.

_Curtains flutter gently in the afternoon wind, a fence of pill bottles erected on the desk, deep brown eyes that go on forever._

_“Hey!”_

“Uh,” Richie says, pushing Bev off so he can sit up on the couch. Bev climbs off with her eyebrows furrowed, watching Richie with trepidation. “Right. About that.” Bev nods silently, encouraging Richie to continue. Richie peeks at her before sighing heavily, “I didn’t.”

“What?”

“It was just bad, okay? I got in there, he said ‘Hey!’ angrily. Yeah, he was _angry_ at me. And then I woke up.”

The look in Bev’s eyes soften in sympathy, “Oh, Richie..” she murmurs, pulling him into a firm hug. Richie bends down slightly so that he can lean his head against the crook of her neck, breathing in her soft scent. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Richie mumbles against her skin.

“Most people fall in love with people who aren’t their soulmates, anyway. And they go on to live happy lives.”

“Yeah.” Richie nods, “I know. It’s just.. I’m so pissed with myself. I had one chance and I fucking blew it, you know? And it’s never gonna come back. Fuck, I’m so angry at myself.”

Bev pushes Richie away gently so that she can rest her forehead against his, wrapping her fingers around his face. “Hey, none of that. There’s not gonna be any self-loathing here, alright? This is a no self-hate zone.”

Richie laughs quietly, opening his eyes and looking into Bev’s.

“It’s not your fault that things turned out the way they did. No one knows how long these dreams last.”

“I know, but it’s just.. Now all I have to remember my soulmate by is his angry little ‘Hey!’, you know? That fucking sucks.”

“Well.. was he cute?”

Richie laughs again, more embarrassed than amused. “The fucking cutest, Bev. Wish you could’ve seen him.”

“There we go. That’s something else to remember him by, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, “I guess that now all my future dates will have to be cuter than him. Which is impossible, by the way.”

“There are many fishes in the sea, Richie. There’ll be one for you. Someone who’ll make you happy and who will love you, just as much as your soulmate can.”

Richie nods along, because he’s heard this many times before. They’ve been here too many times to count, whenever Richie’s insecurities resurface, whenever the need to be loved becomes overwhelming.

The truth is that Richie wants to be loved. It’s the only thing that he’s ever wanted since he can remember.

It’s not that he grew up in a bad environment. His family has been nothing but loving and doting. His mother tried her best to understand him, to shower him with the support that he needed. His father was always there to encourage him and sprinkle life advice subtly. And his friends have been nothing short of a blessing in his life: Bev, Stan and even Ben— Bev’s soulmate— have been there for Richie in his lowest points, and they’ve helped him to move forward in life. They’ve been great, wonderful pillars of support for him and he often thinks about how lucky he is to even have them in his life.

But there’s always been a gap that their love and support doesn’t seem to fill for him.

He doesn’t just crave for someone’s company, or their hugs and kisses. He wants something deeper than that. He wants to be able to talk about the most mundane thing in life and know that his partner isn’t bored or annoyed by him— a common occurrence even with his family and friends. He wants to be able to do the most unremarkable thing with his partner and find a million ways to enjoy it. He wants to be able to lie in bed with the love of his life and busk in the feeling of being understood and _loved_. To be fully accepted for who he is as a person, without having to change who he is in order to be loved.

Thinking about it always makes Richie feel immature, but it’s the one thing that he’s always dreamed of having, and the one thing that he never gets. He knows that a large percentage of people never get to meet their soulmates, and an even smaller percentage of those who do fall in love with each other. Soulmate dreams come to people at random, and sometimes by the time that they do, your soulmate has already lived most of their life, or they’ve just started their lives with a different partner. There’s also the problem of being from different countries, where language and culture barriers become very real problems.

So logically, Richie knows that he’s in the majority. He’ll never get to meet his soulmate in real life, just like most other people. But it’s something that he still hopes against everything else.

While his friends, who have never been as fixated on the idea of love or soulmates, get to enjoy being in the small percentage of people who meet and fall in love with their soulmates, Richie keeps on waiting for the day that he meets his soulmate. It’s taunting how love keeps evading him. And yet, when he was given the chance to finally meet his soulmate..

_“Hey!”_

It vanished, just like that.

“Richie?” Bev says, jolting him out of his reverie. Richie opens his eyes again, looking into Bev’s concerned ones.

“Yeah, I know.” he offers her a weak smile, “I know.”

Bev looks at him with a tiny frown on her lips, “You’ll be okay, Richie. You have Stan, and me, and Ben.”

Richie smiles to himself, small but sincere. “Yeah, I know.” he presses a kiss to her cheek, pulling away to smile widely at her. “I know.”

The line between her brows deepens before her face smooths out again, giving Richie a small smile. “Lie down, you big dummy. I want to lie down and I can’t because someone’s taking up all the space here.”

“Wow,” Richie says, drawing out the word, “Rude. What am I? A human cushion?”

“Yes, isn’t that why you’re trying to develop a beer belly?”

“Aha, Bev gets off a good one! That’s very hurtful, but funny. Not gonna lie.” Bev rolls her eyes fondly, trying to press her smile into a tight line. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

“I’m gonna hop over to Ben’s tonight. He’s got his final presentation the day after tomorrow and he wants my input.”

Richie nods, “Say hi to him for me.”

“Wow. Not flirting with him today? I’m surprised.”

“I just had my soulmate dream today, Bev. I’m not gonna shit on its memory by flirting with your soulmate. Not yet, anyway.”

Bev snorts, lacing her fingers with Richie’s larger ones. “I should be annoyed that you keep propositioning him, but I think even Ben finds it funny by now.”

“Hey, Ben’s a total hunk, alright? If I wasn’t already gay, he might have been my gay awakening.”

“Idiot,” Bev says, reaching up to flick his nose. Richie cries, covering his nose with a hand, “Hey, who was your gay awakening, anyway?”

“Honestly? Fuck if I know.” Richie says, rubbing at his nose with a sulk, “Some half-naked firefighter guy holding a puppy, I think. I found it in the barrens, and I popped a boner.”

“Really?” Bev scrunches her nose, “Wow.”

“You can’t judge me. It’s not like there were a lot of options in Derry, right? I wasn’t gonna pop a boner for _Stan_.”

“Stan would have punched you if you did.”

“Exactly. Beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, the firefighter dude was ripped. He had like, abs and the whole ensemble. It was hot.”

They fall into easy conversation for the rest of the afternoon, because Bev was good at distracting Richie from his own thoughts. Their conversation went in all directions, but it never circled back to the topic of soulmates. With Bev’s weight on his chest and his hand combing through the tangles in her hair, it’s easy to forget the crushing disappointment he felt when he realised that _that_ was his one chance to meet his soulmate— and it’s gone.

Richie doesn’t know when he drifts away, into a sleep too light for any dreams. He can hear the traffic from the street below, and he can feel Bev getting off at one point, feet shuffling in the background. The door shuts with a heavy _thunk_ at a later point, probably minutes before Richie opens his eyes again, weirdly aware that he was awakening from a light nap.

The sun has pretty much set at this point. There are faint streaks of pink across the navy sky, and the jaundiced yellow light from streetlamps begin to cast poorly lit circles on the sidewalks. Richie rolls over on his side, rubbing the crusts off his eyes as he pushes his specs up.

There’s a sandwich on the small coffee table in front of the couch, neatly cut diagonally across. It’s Bev’s PBJ sandwich, which means that she’s out for the night. She always makes him something to eat when she’s coming back late, so that Richie would remember to eat something. He has a tendency to forget about having 3 proper meals when he’s alone.

“Thanks, Bev.” Richie says to no one in particular, picking up the plate and retreating into his room.

He closes the door with his hip and drags himself to his bed, pulling his laptop up on his lap. He punches the keyboard quickly:

_**do soulmate dreams only happen once in your lifetime** _

Truthfully, Richie already knows the answer. He’s been here many times before. He’s read almost every article on the first google page that there was. But—

_“Hey!”_

He also wants to believe that there will be a second time. God knows that he’ll be dreaming of those eyes forever.

He hits enter. A second later, results roll down on his screen. Like a normal person, Richie clicks the first link and begins reading, munching on the sandwich here and there. When he reaches the end of the article, he backs out and clicks the next link. And then he does the same thing, on and on, until he’s done with even the second page of google search results. His hours-long endeavour is fruitless, as he expected. He already knew that nothing new would come out of it, but it was worth a shot. At least he can say that he tried, when really, could he have affected the outcome anyway?

Someone once told him that for a theory to be proven, it needs to be right for all observable examples. For a theory to be wrong, it only needs one counterexample. Richie was trying to find the counterexample, but it turns out that it’s more difficult than trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Grabbing his phone off the floor, Richie scrolls through his contacts for a very specific name.

_**STAN THE MAN** _

He presses the call button and waits until he’s directed to voicemail. _Hi, this is Stanley Uris. I’m unable to pick up your call at the moment. Please leave a voicemail._

“Uh, wow.” Richie pauses in thought, drumming his fingers on his thigh, “I don’t know how to summarise what I need to tell you.” another pause, “Call me back when you can.”

With a dissatisfied huff, he tosses his phone on the bed. Damn Stan for always being busy adulting and shit.

Richie finishes the ends of his sandwich and closes his laptop, putting it on the box he meant to unpack months ago but hasn’t gotten around to doing so. With his hands crossed under the pillow, he looks to Jeff. Thoughts swirl around in his head, running back to the same place that he’s been thinking of for the entire day.

_White curtains, blue walls, a row of bottles. Clean, wooden floors and books lined up according to height. Afternoon sunlight filtering in, fresh air that smells like—_

The grass after a light drizzle.

Richie blinks.

His eyes are still adjusting, mirror images gravitating towards each other when he hears a scream.

“Oh my god!”

If Richie wasn’t so busy freaking out about the fact that he isn’t alone in the room, he might have made a joke about how freaking high pitched a guy’s voice could get. The punchline would be that it isn’t the other guy’s voice that he’d be laughing at.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Richie yells back, heart pounding painfully fast in his chest, every hair on the back of his neck standing. He feels like he’d just been electrocuted by touching an obviously electrified fence, stupidly ignoring all the big ass warning signs. But this was different because Richie did not have any fucking warning that he’d be sent back to this exact same room, much less that the extremely cute guy with his big brown eyes and cute little shorts would be staring at him across the room, comic books scattered across his bed.

“Who the fuck are you?!” the tiny little spitfire screams. His hands are patting the empty space on the bed next to him frantically, finally halting all manic movement when he clutches onto an inhaler. Shaking it twice in a fluid but extremely violent motion, the guy screws his eyes shut as he sticks the nozzle into his mouth and presses on the trigger.

_Psstttttt_.

Richie doesn’t comment on it because his heart is still on the verge of beating a hole through his ribcage and jumping out of his body. He’s reminded of the feeling of when Bev had convinced him and Stan of a great bonding activity that they could do: joining the annual Maine marathon, which had turned out to be the _worst_ thing that Bev had ever made him and Stan promise to do with her. But it wasn’t the worst thing that Bev had ever made _him_ do— Stan just opted out of those, because Stan wasn’t stupid.

The guy on the bed thumps on his chest, taking in huge gulps of air like he’d been suffocating. Richie instinctively moves forward, wanting to help the guy to catch his breath. But as soon as he gets a foot forward, the guy starts shaking his head in a frenzy. Then he does the one thing that makes Richie pause and cock his eye incredulously.

The guy turns his inhaler outward so that the nozzle faces Richie.

“Stay back,” the guy says, trying to growl but it really comes out like a whine with how wheezy his voice is.

“What are you— are you seriously threatening me with your inhaler? Am I supposed to be, like, _scared_ of your medicine or something?”

The guy glares at him, although his chest is still making large up and downs. “Are you?”

“No?” Richie says, squinting at the guy, “What the fuck? Why would I be?”

The guy’s cheeks colour with embarrassment, although he doesn’t lower his inhaler. It looks like something that he doesn’t want to do because putting his inhaler down would be conceding that that was stupid, even by Richie’s standard. So the guy doesn’t, he just holds it up and continues glaring (ineffectively) at Richie.

“Are you gonna put the inhaler down?”

“Are you gonna back off?”

“No?”

“Then no, I’m not.”

Richie throws his hands up in surrender, “Okay, whatever. Suit yourself. I’m just saying, battery acid-tasting medicine isn’t actually like battery acid. And I’m not _scared_ of it, or you.”

The guy huffs in frustration. “Who the hell are you anyway? And why are you here?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. I mean, I thought I did, but then you’re here, which means that I am obviously wrong about it.”

“You thought about what?” the guy looks curious now, almost lowering his hand until he realises it and lifts it higher than ever. “And what do I have to do with it?”

“Come on, you mean you’ve never thought about it?”

“Thought about what?” the guy asks again, irritation seeping into his voice, clearly annoyed that he has to ask again.

“About this weird dream, man. Everything.”

A thoughtful look flashes on the guy’s features before he schools it into a blank look. “What’s so weird about this?”

Richie’s mouth falls open before he closes it. He paces in front of the table, scratching his head in bewilderment. “What’s so weird about this? What’s _not_ weird about this?”

The guy frowns in confusion, folding his arms expectantly. Richie continues, “I mean, first of all, this place looks exactly the same as it did when I left. I mean, how much time has passed in here? Has _any_ time even passed at all?”

The guy startles, looking slightly nervous as he ponders on it. “I.. I don’t know. I didn’t even think about time, actually.”

“Right. See, that’s weird thing number one. And weird thing number two is that this place is blank as fuck.”

“Blank as what—”

Richie marches across to the window, pointing out of it purposefully. “I mean, look at this shit. It’s hella empty outside. Is this even supposed to be a place? Is this supposed to be your neighbourhood or something?”

The guy pushes himself off his bed with a mild scowl on his face. “Of course it’s my neighbourhood, asshole. Where else do you think my house is?”

“Looks kinda empty, like those serial killer-esque neighbourhoods. Lone houses in the middle of nowhere.”

The guy’s scowl deepens, walking to the window and staring out. Immediately, the whiteness outside the window populates itself with different houses and yards along the road. A lamppost springs to life outside the lawn of the house as well.

“What the hell are you talking about? It’s exactly my neighbourhood, down to the stupid shit stain that an idiot made in the middle of the road.”

The image of the neighbourhood before the guy looked out of the window and after is so jarring that Richie blinks a few times, takes off his glasses and scrubs his eyes _hard_. He knows what he’s seeing now is exactly what the guy’s neighbourhood probably looks like, but he swears on his _life_ that it was the white nothingness outside just a second ago.

“Holy fucking shit,” Richie says, “I swear, little guy, that there was nothing out there a second ago. Not until you came here.”

“I’m five foot nine, asshole.”

“Yeah, but like, you’re tiny, man. You could probably fit into those trolley things at the supermarket.”

The guy’s scowl deepens _even further_ — a feat that Richie thought to be impossible until now. The guy’s scowl is pretty fucking impressive if you ask Richie, it’s got that completely overturned U on his face, and his eyebrows are doing a crazily similar impression of angry birds right now. It’s a masterpiece, really.

“You are such a turd,” the guy says. “I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you. You’re just some random part of my subconscious that decided I haven’t suffered enough.”

Richie frowns, “I’m not a part of your subconscious, dude.”

The guy snorts, crawling back onto his bed as he picks up a comic left open at the side. “Yeah, right. That’s what they all say.”

“No, really. I’m not part of your subconscious. I’m a real person.”

“Right,” the guy chuckles lightly, shaking his head in amusement, “So a _real_ person would _randomly_ drop into my dream twice? Okay, sure.”

Richie walks towards the bed urgently, “Yeah, that’s _exactly_ why this whole dream is weird, Einstein. How the fuck am I back here again?”

The guy looks up, arching his eyebrow. “Did you not listen to a single word that I just said?”

“I’m not a part of your freaking subconscious. If anything, _you’re_ a part of my subconscious. I mean, I wake up and when I fall back asleep, I end up here again, where nothing has changed. Seriously? It’s like as if my brain pressed pause on this shit while I was awake.”

“I am _not_ a part of your subconscious.” the guy insists.

Richie shrugs casually, “Okay, so here’s the thing. If I’m not a part of your subconscious— because I am a very real person— and if you’re ‘not a part of my subconscious’—”

“Don’t airquote me, asshole.”

“That means that there’s only one explanation for all of this.” Richie finishes as if he wasn’t rudely interrupted. The guy sighs heavily.

“What?”

“We’re soulmates.”

“Again, how the fuck does that work?” the guy says immediately, not missing a beat. “You’ve been here twice, genius. Even you should know that soulmate dreams only come once in a lifetime.”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s the original theory I had, but clearly that’s where it all goes to hell.”

The guy snickers, “Why does it feel like your ideas failing isn’t something unusual for you?”

“Hey, don’t see you offering any ideas over here.” Richie says jokingly, feeling a smile creep onto his lips as well.

Sitting on the edge of the guy’s bed, with the guy’s feet resting inches from his thigh, is an easy sort of intimacy to slip into. Richie doesn’t even know who this guy is, but being around him makes him feel happier, like he doesn’t need to be any of his Voices to impress anyone. It’s the first time that he’s met anyone and liked them right off the bat— he didn’t even like _Bev_ immediately after meeting her, just because she could make his yoyo sleep on her first try while he’d been failing at it for weeks.

“What’s your name?” Richie asks at last, breaking the comfortable quiet they were sharing, “I don’t wanna keep calling you ‘the guy’ in my head.”

“‘The guy’? That is so uninspired.”

“Okay, would you prefer cutie pie? Or sweet cheeks? Or—”

“Or shut the fuck up. Oh my god, you are so annoying.” the guy says, looking up at the ceiling with nostrils flaring in exasperation. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes, “Eddie, okay? My name is Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“I knew it!” Richie cackles, clapping his hands, “I fucking knew it. You look like an Eddie to me.”

Eddie furrows his brows, “And what does an Eddie look like?”

“You.”

“Fuck you.” Eddie says, “I’ve known you for all of like, what? Ten minutes? And you’re already the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“Well, at least I’m first on someone’s list of something. That’s a big win if you ask me.”

“Okay, now you’re just making yourself sound sadder and sadder.”

“Do I get anything if I’m the saddest person you’ve ever known?”

“No.”

Richie shrugs a shoulder casually, “Eh, worth a shot anyway.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, although his lips are upturned in a very fond way. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Why? Are you interested?”

“It’s just basic courtesy to know someone’s name. It’s not like I’m asking you out for a date or anything.”

“Well, if it’s a date that you want, don’t be shy to ask me. Might have to check my overbooked schedule but I’m sure that I’ll be able to fit a cutie like you in.” Richie says, winking salaciously at the end of his sentence. Eddie narrows his eyes threateningly at Richie. Despite their height difference (definitely more than a head), Richie isn’t stupid enough to think that Eddie won’t act on any homicidal tendencies that he might have— it’s always the unexpected ones. So he adds, almost as an after-thought, “But my name’s Richie Tozier, by the way.”

“Richie? That sounds about right.”

“Yeah?” Richie looks up with a grin, “Why’s that? Are all the Richies in your life undeniably handsome and charismatic as well?”

“No, they’re all Dicks.”

“Oho! Eds gets off a good one!” Richie laughs, slapping Eddie’s ankle playfully. Eddie kicks Richie’s hand away, frowning even harder at him, as if by the force of his glare alone Richie will disappear into thin air.

“Don’t call me that!” Eddie fumes, crossing his arms.

“What? It’s a short form of Eddie. It’s easier to say Eds than it is to say Eddie. Eds is one syllable long, Eddie has two syllables. It’s all about the efficiency.”

“Then I’m gonna call you Dick. Because it’s all about the efficiency, right?”

Richie strokes his chin thoughtfully, “Touche, Eddie. To-fucking-che. Alright, I’ll let you have this round.”

“You’ll _let_ me have this round? It’s called _losing_ this round. You’re such a sore loser.”

“But that’s part of the charm, baby. What’s this, anyway? It’s all blank. You read blank comics?” Richie picks up one of the comic books, flipping carelessly through the pages. The only reason why Richie knows that it’s supposed to be comic books is because of the texture of the paper and the general look of it. Normal text printed books do not look like this. It’s too tall and too wide, and too _thin_. But he can’t see anything on the pages, it’s all the same blank nothingness that Richie saw outside Eddie’s window, and the big ass nothingness outside of Eddie’s room where Richie had wandered around at first.

“It’s not _blank_. Can you not see the bigass X-Men title on it?”

“No?” Richie says, but immediately the cover page prints itself in vibrant shades of orange surrounding Jean Grey. “Oh, shit. I see it now.”

Eddie stares at Richie, conveying exactly what he thinks of Richie’s IQ wordlessly.

“Hey, I resent that.” Richie says, “It really was fucking blank a second ago, okay?”

“Right, sure it was.” Eddie chuckles.

“Seriously. You think it’s like something else about this place? Like, I don’t know, maybe I can’t see it because I don’t know exactly what it is. That would totally explain the window and the comics, by the way.”

Eddie frowns, “Then how come I don’t see the so-called blankness?”

“It’s not _so-called_ , it’s _real_. But fine, don’t believe me. No one does anyway. They just eat their words when they realise that I’m right later on. And besides, is this what you’ve been doing all day? Just sitting here reading comic books like a nerd?”

“I’m not a nerd.” Eddie bristles. Richie snorts.

“Yeah right. The fuck you aren’t. You’re a total nerd, Eddie. Comic books? Check. Polo shirt? Buttoned _all the way to the top_? Check. Fanny pack? Check. I mean, seriously, even if I didn’t know everything else, why are you even wearing a _fanny pack_? Shit’s like from the 1920s or something. Literally the only people left wearing them are boomers, you know that right?”

“Boomers aren’t born in the 1920s you idiot. And besides, I need my fanny pack to carry my medicine. It’s too inconvenient for me to carry them in my hand.”

“There is such a thing called a backpack. You do know that too, right?”

Eddie huffs, “Yeah, I know that, asshole. But some backpacks are too fucking big, okay? They don’t fit on me properly.”

“Ooh, that’s what your mom said last night too.”

“That doesn’t even make any fucking sense.”

“Yes it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Eddie snaps, “If your version of sex somehow involves putting your dick _on_ people rather than _in_ them, then I don’t wanna know what kind of fucked up sex you’re having.”

“Okay, fine.” Richie raises his hands in surrender, “Don’t ask me, ask your mom if you’re that curious.”

“Shut up.” Eddie says, narrowing his eyes at Richie before picking up the comic he left opened earlier. “Besides, I don’t even get to read comic books often at home. This is like, exactly what I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Why not?”

“My mom.” Eddie says, glaring at Richie before Richie can get another ‘your mom’ joke in. “Shut up. Anyway, my mom doesn’t like me reading comic books. She says it’s too violent. She’s scared that I’m going to try swinging between buildings or punching through walls and breaking my hand or something. It’s so stupid, though. I mean— who’d be so stupid to try doing something as impossible as that, right?”

Richie avoids Eddie’s gaze. “Ha ha,” he says stiffly, “Yeah. That’s so stupid. Whoever's tried that must be complete idiots. Total morons.”

Eddie stares, unimpressed. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean what did _I_ do?” Richie fake gasps, clutching onto his chest in mock hurt.

“I mean exactly that: what did you do? Did you try to punch a wall and end up shattering your hand or something?”

“Pssh, _no_. Even I’m not that stupid. Come on, give me some credit, will ya.” Richie says, “I was really into the Flash when I was younger. And— okay, stop looking at me like that, it wasn’t totally my fault. My mom always played along and pretended to be frozen in time while I ran around her, so I _really_ believed I had super speed. So I always thought that I’d win the recess break races easy peasy, you know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, I bet you were one of those kids who always told people not to do something and then after they do the thing, you’ll be like, ‘I told you so’.”

“And I bet that you were one of those kids who always did the thing even if everyone was telling you not to.”

“Exactly. You’ve got to live life on the edge, baby.”

“No thanks. I’m in for a long life.”

“Right. And I’m in for a good time, not a long time.”

“Figures. You look exactly like that sort of person.”

“What? What kind of person do I look like? Ooh, is it the bad boy type?” Richie tugs on the folds of his hawaiian shirt, smirking at Eddie with a quirk of his brow, “Are my glasses and shirt the embodiment of a bad boy type?”

“No. They’re the embodiment of a nerd.”

Richie shrugs casually, “That works. Still better than being called a loser I guess.”

Eddie glances up, “You were called a loser?” he asks. He doesn’t sound happy about it, Richie thinks. But then again, Eddie doesn’t sound happy about most things that they’ve spoken about so far.

“Well, yeah. I’ve been called many things, like Bucky Beaver and—”

_“Fucking cock-sucker!”_

A chill creeps up Richie’s spine, freezing him for a split second. In that short moment, Richie felt the same fear he felt years ago. He can almost feel his heart getting ready to beat faster, he can almost feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins again, the way that his palms would sweat and the way that his vision would tunnel.

Richie shakes the memory away. The one where he’s racing through the empty school halls with Bowers hot at his heel, face wet with garbage juice after falling into the trash can that Richie narrowly missed.

Eddie doesn’t comment on Richie’s abrupt silence, although he does put his book away.

“Why were you called Bucky Beaver?” Eddie asks softly.

“At least the fact that you have to ask makes me think that it isn’t that obvious now.” Richie laughs weakly, grinning at Eddie and pointing to his front teeth, “See these babies over here?”

Eddie leans forward.

“They used to be big as fuck. My buck teeth. I used to get bullied a lot for it.” Richie explains, “Got called Bucky Beaver cause of them.”

“I don’t think it’s that big,” Eddie says, “I don’t even see the problem, actually.”

“Yeah. My dad fixed it for me. He’s a dentist. I wore braces for so many years that I’d become known for 3 things: my braces, my glasses, and my trash mouth. When I removed my braces, people kept staring as if I had magically aged 50 years overnight or something.”

Eddie laughs, “Yeah. Trash mouth sounds right.”

“What? You too?” Richie laughs along, playfully slapping Eddie’s leg. Eddie retorts by delivering a swift kick to Richie’s thighs.

“Yeah, me too, jerk. You’re the one who brought it up in the first place.”

“You asked.”

“Did not.”

“Did too. You said—”

“Yeah, it was a rhetorical question.”

“Eddie, asking someone to explain to you why they were called Bucky Beaver is _not_ a rhetorical question.”

Being with Eddie is surprisingly easy, considering how angry Eddie is. Well, he’s not angry, but he just riles up easily. Easier than anyone Richie’s ever seen (and that doesn’t want to beat him up). Stan and Bev’s grown used to Richie’s stupid commentaries and usually stop paying him any attention when he starts, but Eddie.. Eddie returns every jab with an equally pointed one, and it’s _great._ Richie’s never had someone who’s matched him word for word, stupid remark for stupid remark, but here is Eddie, like a god sent present to him.

And, if Richie’s being real honest with himself (which he tries to be more often, because Bev said it’ll be good for him to stop denying hard truths), he knows deep down in the core of his soul that Eddie is his soulmate. Which is strange as fuck considering that he’s here, _again_ , and that he shouldn’t be. Everything should have ended last night, with Eddie’s outraged “Hey!” echoing in his mind tauntingly. The internet says so, the soulmate rules of the world says so, anyway.

But fuck all of that. Richie wants to believe that he’s special in some way. Yeah, it’s corny as fuck that he should be the chosen one. The person who breaks the rules, the person whom the universe takes pity on by giving him a second chance. But if that isn’t true, then how can Richie explain how he’s sitting next to Eddie, pointing out the stupid plot holes in comic books he’s reread millions of times by now? If it isn’t true, then Richie should still be moping in his room about his missed opportunity, immortalising the “Hey!” in the blackboard of shame in his mind.

So, Richie (thinks that he) knows 2 things: the first, Eddie is his soulmate. Doesn’t really matter what Eddie thinks, because Richie knows this. There’s no doubt in the back of his mind, no feeling out of place next to Eddie. Eddie is his soulmate. The end.

Second, the universe has somehow taken mercy on Richie’s run of bad luck for all the 22 years of his life by blessing him with another soulmate dream. For the first time in his entire life, Richie thinks he could finally call himself a believer in god. There _has_ to be a god up there, and that god is a good god.

“Hey,” Eddie says suddenly, breaking the nice quiet they’ve fallen into while reading comics together. Richie pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, looking at Eddie with an arched brow.

“What?”

“It’s getting.. late.” Eddie says, pointing out of his window. Richie follows Eddie’s finger, glancing at the orange rays of light shining through the open window, casting long shadows in Eddie’s room where his furniture shies away from the heat of the sun.

There’s a little crease between Eddie’s brow, like he isn’t sure what’s happening. “I’ve.. never seen.. I mean, I’ve never noticed that time could even pass. It’s always been noon-ish here.”

“Woah,” Richie murmurs, “You mean that this is the first time that the sun’s setting here?”

Eddie nods hesitantly.

“Shit. That’s weird. Why do you think—” Richie’s saying before he stops himself, realising something.

_“I mean, first of all, this place looks exactly the same as it did when I left. I mean, how much time has passed in here? Has any time even passed at all?”_

_“I.. I don’t know. I didn’t even think about time, actually.”_

“Bruh,” Richie finishes his thought.

“What?” Eddie asks, folding his arms expectantly.

“Do you think it’s because I mentioned to you about time earlier?”

Eddie takes a moment to think about it, and the first thing he does is to scoff. “How would that even work? Time doesn’t just stop forever and then suddenly start working again just because you mentioned it.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly how it works, I think. You’ve never thought about time, and I pop by, bring it up, and now it’s something that exists in this place.”

Eddie nods again, more convinced but spooked. “Okay. So let’s just say that this is how it works—”

“This _is_ how it works.”

“Then what are the other rules of this place? Because it sounds almost as if you’re saying that we can do almost anything we can think about here. Which is just crazy.”

“Look, man. I’m not exactly privy to all the rules here. I don’t even know what’s going on here, or where we are— let’s just call this place dreamspace.”

“Dreamspace?” Eddie snorts.

“Because we’re in a dream, and this is a big space in our dreams, right?”

“That is so original.”

“You weren’t asking for original. Besides, that’s not even the point.”

“Which is.. what?”

“I imagined a door and it popped right out of nowhere, leading me here. I had no idea what was outside your window until you came by to fill in the blanks. And also, this whole time thing makes me think that— and don’t laugh at me— but it makes me think that the limits of this world is our fucking imagination.”

Eddie blinks slowly, “Okay.” he says, “Show me.”

“Show you?”

“Yeah, show me something.”

“ _Show me something_ , is that how you pick up all the chicks out there? Hey, I’m gonna show you something.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie slaps Richie’s shoulder, “You are so annoying. Shut up. I’m serious. How do you expect me to believe you if you’re not gonna prove your theory? Don’t forget— your first theory about us being soulmates is obviously not true. So I’m not gonna just believe you like this.”

Richie thinks about it. It is true that Eddie doesn’t really have any reason to believe him. And besides, it’s not like Richie’s really going to be losing anything by testing out his ideas anyway. It’s a win-win situation here. Richie earns Eddie’s trust, plus he gets to do cool shit.

“Okay, I’ll show you.”

“Show me what?” Eddie draws back skeptically.

“My room?” Richie says, partly confused because wasn’t this Eddie’s idea in the first place?

“Why are you going to show me your room?” a pause, “Wait, you have a room here?”

“No, I don’t. But the sun is setting and I highly doubt that you’re going to let me sleep in your room. So if I’m going to build something, it might as well be a place I can sleep in, right?”

Eddie looks down with lips pursed in thought. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right. There’s no way that I can let someone who still makes ‘your mom’ jokes in this day and age sleep in my room anyway.”

“Aww, Eds, it’s okay. At least your mom still lets me sleep in hers.”

Eddie sighs heavily, grabbing his inhaler as he climbs off the bed. “I deserved that for reminding you about it, didn’t I?”

“Yep. Totally asked for it.” Richie says, following Eddie off the bed as well. But when Eddie stops just before he reaches the door, Richie cocks his head in confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” Eddie says quickly. But after a brief second, he runs his hand through his hair and sighs again, “It’s just that— I’ve never been outside of this room before. So.. I’m just not sure what.. I’m—”

“Afraid to leave your room?” Richie finishes for Eddie. There’s no judgment in his voice because he understands what it means to be afraid to leave a place. He was afraid to leave Derry too, as much as he hated Derry, as much as he’d always dreamt of it for years.

Eddie peeks at Richie through his bangs, “Yeah. Kind of.” he admits in a small voice.

Richie offers Eddie a gentle smile, hopefully one that gives Eddie some kind of encouragement or strength. “It’s okay. I kind of get it. Here,” he holds out his hand between them. Eddie glances at it suspiciously, “You can hold my hand if it makes you feel better. Holding my friend’s hands always made me feel braver.”

Eddie stares at Richie’s hand like it’s going to turn into a venus flytrap and eat Eddie’s hand as soon as he touches it. He stares at it like he’s _studying_ his hand, and it’s making Richie self-conscious enough to want to retract his offer. But before he gets a chance to, Eddie grabs it in a swift motion, looking determinedly at the door.

“Yeah, okay. Lead the way.” Eddie says, pointedly ignoring the way that he’s gripping onto Richie’s hand like he’s going to break it into halves. Richie shrugs it off, takes a step forward to open the door.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting anyway, but Richie is pretty sure that this is both disappointing yet expected.

Behind Eddie’s room door lay the white nothingness of dreamspace that Richie found himself in last night. Nothing else has changed. Eddie’s room door remains the only oddity in the entirely white landscape, a black door in the middle of nowhere.

Eddie takes a cautious step behind Richie, looking around in wonder.

“Is this where you were?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, “It’s just..”

“Nothing.” Eddie finishes in a dreamy voice. Richie smiles crookedly.

“Yeah. It’s nothingness.”

“So.. You just imagined a door and it.. Brought you to my room?”

“That’s what I said, yeah.”

“So you can imagine things and they’ll magically appear?”

“That’s the theory.”

“Just checking, asshole.” Eddie says. “You’re really going to build your room? I thought that Inception said not to recreate real places from our memories.”

Richie looks over his shoulder at Eddie’s room pointedly, “Yeah, sure. We shouldn’t recreate places from our memories.”

“Jerk. I was just saying.” Eddie mutters, giving Richie’s hand another squeeze. Truthfully, Richie is surprised that Eddie hadn’t just let go of his hand entirely. But Eddie’s grip on Richie’s hand is comforting to him, even if it was meant to be comforting for Eddie. Eddie is next to him, and whatever happens next, Eddie will still be here with their hands still holding onto each other’s. Richie can feel a smile creeping onto his face as he lets his eyes fall shut.

He imagines his own room door. Not the one in his parent’s home back in Maine, but the one in his flat with Beverly. The one that’s too thin to block noise both ways, the one that swings too hard and scares the living shit out of Richie when it closes too loudly in the middle of the night. White paint flaking off near the hinges that should have been oiled months ago.

When he opens his eyes, it’s almost as if he’s back in his apartment, standing in front of his own room.

“What the hell.” Eddie says, taking a shaky step back in shock. His eyes are so big that they’re nearly bugging out, and his mouth is wide enough that Richie wonders if he’s going to dislocate his jaw. His grip on Richie’s hand falters, nearly falling out before Richie closes his hand around Eddie’s again, giving it a reassuring grip. “Is this— is this really what your room door looks like?”

Richie gulps, “Yeah. It is.”

Eddie laughs weakly, “Okay. I don’t even think I could make this up even if I was high or drunk. Or both.”

“Actually, you could probably make this up if you’re drunk _and_ high.”

Eddie shoots Richie a look.

“You don’t want to know.” Richie says, pushing his room door open. “Trust me.”

The door falls open with the familiar loud creak Richie’s gotten so used to that he no longer thinks about oiling the hinges anymore. But he can practically feel Eddie’s stare drilling two very big holes into the side of his head.

“I was gonna get around to oiling it, okay?” Richie says defensively. Total lie, not that Eddie would know.

“You’re such a shit liar. You were never planning to oil it.”

Fuck.

“Okay, fine. I _had_ some plans to oil it at first, but then I got used to it. Sue me.”

“You’d probably get sued for poor maintenance of your place that ends up starting a fire or something.” Eddie says. Richie snorts, walking into the room. He doesn’t realise that Eddie’s stopped at the door, or that Eddie had let go of his hand until he’s a few steps into the familiar room.

Looking over his shoulder, Richie frowns, “Aren’t you coming in?”

“Nuh-uh,” Eddie says, shaking his head with his face pinched, “That’s not a room. That’s a pigsty.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that mountain of unwashed clothes at your feet, Richie.” Eddie says, suppressing the urge to groan, “How the fuck do you even still have clean clothes to wear? That looks like your entire wardrobe on the floor.”

“Yeah, I was gonna do laundry tomorrow. If it’s not the due date, it’s not the do date. Haven’t you heard of that? That shit’s like my life motto.”

“That sounds like a terrible life motto to live by. It’s just a disaster waiting to happen. What happens if you need a clean pair of pants and then you don’t have it? And you have to rewear dirty pants? That’s disgusting, Richie. And besides, you can’t just tell me that you were gonna do laundry tomorrow after you’ve used that excuse on your door hinges. Don’t you have other excuses to—” Eddie looks up, looks back at Richie and then does the fastest, most violent double take that Richie has ever seen anyone do in his entire life. He’s mildly surprised that Eddie’s head is still attached to his neck with the force of it. “What the fuck! Is that— is that _mold_?!”

“Hey, I see you’ve met Jeff!” Richie says happily.

“Jeff? Jeff?! You named your ceiling mold _Jeff_?!”

“Yes..” Richie drawls, “Is there a problem?”

“Is there a problem?! Yes, Richie! Mold infestation is the fucking problem!”

“What the fuck is mold infestation?”

“It’s when mold grows all over the place. Have you not— do you not know of how quickly mold can grow? Especially in damp and dark places like your room? It’s bad for your health, okay. In the long run, it could hurt your lungs or something.”

“Eddie, in the long run, we are all dead. Haven’t you watched Fight Club? On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero. There’s like a million other ways that I could go. I hardly believe that a little mold on my ceiling is gonna be the cause of my death. And besides, Jeff’s my friend, man. We’re buds. I’m not gonna get rid of him.”

“I’m serious, asshole. Mold is bad stuff. You need to clean it out of your room ASAP. Seriously, how did no one teach you these things?”

“What? Where am I supposed to learn this shit? School of mold infestation?”

“You’re such a dickwad. I hope you get moldy lungs and die.”

“Aww,” Richie coos, throwing himself on his bed, “You’re so sweet when you get concerned about me.”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole. There’s no way that I’m going into your room— it’s gonna trigger all my allergies.”

“What allergies do you have?”

“I’m allergic to dust— which your room is the ideal place for collecting dust, by the way. Those posters? And your clothes? That’s like, dust breeding petri dishes. Also, I’m allergic to mold, and that thing up there,” Eddie wags an accusing finger at Jeff, “Is gonna trigger my allergy. I’m also allergic to—”

“Okay, correction: _how_ many allergies do you have?”

Eddie takes a moment to count with his fingers, and then again. “I think I have about 12.”

“12?! What the fuck!” Richie says. “What are you, like a real life pre-serum Steve Rogers?”

“No.” Eddie says, annoyed, “Pre-serum Steve Rogers was a twink.”

Richie gives Eddie a very purposeful once over, letting his gaze catch on Eddie’s shorts.

“Shut the fuck up.” Eddie says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were gonna.”

“Okay, yeah that’s fair. Wait, where’re you going? Are you leaving already?”

Eddie turns around, “Yeah? I mean, there’s no way that I’m stepping into your room. And it’s getting late.”

“What? Like you have curfew or something?”

Richie expected something quick and snippy from Eddie. He doesn’t get it. Instead, Eddie looks like Richie’s pulled on a string that he didn’t know existed until now. He tenses up, averting his gaze uncomfortably.

“My mom— she worries about me.” is all Eddie says. Aw, shit. Richie feels like a complete fucker now. He’s about to apologise for saying something insensitive— even if he didn’t know, but it doesn’t make him feel any better thinking along this line— but Eddie’s already making to walk away. “It’s okay. It’s— whatever. Honestly.” and as an afterthought, he adds, “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess. If you’re still here or something.”

Eddie’s gone by the time that Richie gets his thoughts together.

When he wakes up the next day to the silence of the world outside, Richie drags himself over to Eddie’s room. When he wakes up the day after with the cool breeze tickling his feet, Richie rolls over the edge of the bed and crawls over to Eddie. When he wakes up the day after that with Eddie’s nervous shuffling outside his room, he pulls open the door and greets Eddie with a lazy smile of his own, hoping that it’ll reassure his new roomie that he isn’t going anywhere yet.

When a small smile cracks on Eddie’s face, Richie finds himself more awake than any double shot could make him.

He isn’t counting the exact days, but Richie thinks it’s been about a month or two. He knows this because the sky is getting darker earlier, because the wind is starting to feel a little more wild than usual.

Richie also knows that they’re threading a fine line between keeping a distance and getting to know each other.

The argument for keeping a distance goes like this: Eddie _still_ believes that Richie is a part of his subconscious. Eddie insists that _he_ exists in the real world, whereas he can’t be sure whether Richie really exists in the real world. Richie throws the same argument back at Eddie, and they find themselves in a stalemate. There’s no way to prove that they really exist outside of this place to each other, and the idea that they could both be a part of someone else’s subconscious is laughable.

So they fall on an unspoken agreement that they must exist in the real world, but it’s always taken with a tablespoon of salt— on Eddie’s part anyway.

Richie is pretty sure that Eddie is his soulmate by now. If it isn’t in how right this dream feels to him, then it’s in the way that he’s never been as comfortable with a stranger as he is with Eddie. He’s so fucking happy just being around Eddie that his mouth aches with how much he smiles and laughs every single day. Even if he doesn’t know Eddie much, it’s still fun and easy being around him.

Being around Eddie was like finding the part of himself he never knew he had.

Still, despite Richie’s insistence that he’s very real, Eddie seems to prefer keeping an arm’s length. They’ll talk and they’ll bicker and they’ll laugh, but Eddie always shies away from talking too much about himself. He doesn’t offer information about himself the way that new friends do, and although the way that he peeks at Richie suggests that he would like to find out more about Richie as well, he doesn’t say anything.

It leaves most of the work to Richie. Not that Richie minds or anything, because finding out things about Eddie is always fun. It’s like opening a Kinder Surprise— knowing there’s something in there but not knowing what you’ll find.

It’s the reason why Richie pokes around Eddie’s room often, offering him a comic as a peace offering for the next few hours of questions.

He’s about to open Eddie’s closet again when Eddie pipes up, not lifting his eyes from the manga on his bed. “Don’t fucking open my cupboard again, Richie. I will kill you.”

It’s the first time in a few hours that Eddie’s acknowledged Richie’s existence.

Earlier today, Richie introduced Eddie to Death Note, and since then Eddie has been blissfully ignoring Richie in favour of marvelling at how intelligent and sexy the characters are. Oh, Richie, isn’t Mello the best? Oh my god, L is such a genius. Blah blah blah. Rinse and repeat. It was funny at first but then Richie got bored because Eddie was completely oblivious to anything else but the manga.

Richie looks over his shoulders, “Why? Did you hide some skeletons in your closet since the last time I opened it?”

Eddie finally tears his gaze away from the pages to glare at Richie, “No. You just make a fucking mess of my clothes every time you open it.” he huffs, looking back at the comic, “Besides, it’s not like I’ve added anything new to my closet. There’s literally no point in going through my clothes and messing everything up again.”

“It’s not my fault you fold your clothes into such tiny squares. Can’t you just be a normal person and throw everything in the corner?”

“Folding your clothes _is_ the normal thing to do, Richie. I hate to break it to you— no, wait, I don’t, actually— but you’re the abnormal one here. No functioning adult tosses their clothes on the floor and calls it a day.”

“Fuck adulting. That’s for losers. We should all just live our lives without conforming to societal norms. Fuck that shit. It’s toxic.”

Eddie scoffs, “You can say that all you want but in the end you know what you’ve got to do to pay the bills. We’re going to sell our souls to the corporate world and die in a box.”

“That’s not true.” Richie frowns, “I mean, it is true that we’ll need to get a job and all that jazz. But we don’t always have to follow the societal norm of taking up a 9 to 5. At least I’m not.”

Eddie looks up, genuinely interested now. “What’re you going to do?”

“Don’t know yet. But I’m really hoping that I can land that job as a radio host. I’ve got an interview for next week. Pretty sweet hours too. Otherwise, I think I’ve got a pretty good shot at being a ventriloquist.”

“A ventriloquist?”

“What? You got a problem with that, son?” Richie says in a Southern drawl. Eddie’s nose scrunches in distaste.

“That was bad.”

“Okay, yeah. That’s fair. It’s a new voice that I’m trying out anyway. My English ones are always better.”

“If that’s true then I worry for your ventriloquist dream.”

“Ouch,” Richie grips onto his chest, slumping back onto the side of Eddie’s bed. He tilts his head up in time to catch a glimpse of a small smile on Eddie’s face. It’s not often that he sees it, so Richie’s pretty surprised when he does. He smiles back at Eddie, pushing the bridge of his glasses up his nose. “What do you want to do when you grow up?”

Eddie blinks in surprise. For whatever reason, he was clearly not expecting Richie to ask him back the question. Strange.

“I’m a mechanical engineering major.” Eddie explains, “So maybe I’ll get a job in some engineering company. I don’t know. I’ve heard that a lot of engineering majors end up working in the finance industry too, so that’s another possibility.”

“Finance industry?”

“Yeah. A senior of mine landed a job in banking, he’s doing option pricing. I don’t really understand most of it, but he’s getting paid pretty well for a fresh graduate, so he told me to consider the finance industry. Actually, um, he told me that I might do well as a risk analyst, although I have no idea what that is yet. But it’s something I’ve been considering as well.”

“A risk analyst huh?” Richie murmurs, “I can imagine that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re already calculating risks all the time here. _Oh, Richie, your room has so much dust. It’s gonna make your lungs dusty. Oh, Richie, look at Jeff on your ceiling, you’re gonna have a mold infestation._ You’d be a boss ass risk analyst.”

“Shut up.” Eddie says, whacking Richie’s head lightly. “And it’s true— your room is fucking filthy. I’m actually surprised that you’re still alive. You should probably get it cleaned.”

“My room doesn’t need cleaning.” Richie counters. Eddie narrows his eyes.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“ _Yes_ , it does.”

“No, it doesn’t. Eddie, Eds, I know where everything is. I don’t need to clean it. What’s the point? It’s just gonna get messy again.”

Eddie narrows his eyes further, his body coiling in irritation. “That’s why you have to make an effort to keep it neat, Richie—”

“Neat is a point of reference. So, _technically speaking_ , if I were to keep it as it is and not let it get messier, that also counts as keeping it neat. Right?”

“Oh my god,” Eddie slams the open Death Note book shut, pushing himself off the bed now. He looks agitated, and Richie doesn’t need to see Eddie’s face to feel the angry vibes rolling off the smaller man right now. Eddie stands in front of Richie now, and despite Eddie being a head shorter than Richie, when Richie is sitting on the floor and Eddie standing over him, Eddie looks like a fucking _tower_. “Get up.”

“W-What?” Richie stammers, adjusting his glasses nervously.

“We’re cleaning your room, right now.”

“Right now?”

“Did I fucking stammer?”

“Okay, okay. Jeez. I’m just— you really want to clean my room? I thought you said that you were allergic to dust.”

“Yeah, I fucking am, asshole. That’s why we’re cleaning the shit in your room: so that I can actually go there.”

“Wait,” Richie says, startled, “You want to go to _my_ room?”

“Don’t make me regret saying that.”

“No take backs, Eddie Spaghetti. You said you want to go to my room. My _room_.”

“Don’t call me that, dickwad. And I’m not going to go to your room _ever_ if we don’t start cleaning it right fucking _now_.”

That’s all Richie needs in order to make a beeline for his room with Eddie hot at his heels. Just before Eddie steps into his room, a look of apprehension crosses his features.

“Are you _sure_ you wanna risk your allergies?”

Eddie shoves Richie inside, “Come on, you can make it up to me later.”

According to Eddie’s masterplan for cleaning and reinvigorating Richie’s room, they start by clearing the floor.

“Where are your baskets?” Eddie asks, looking around the room with a hand on his hip. Seeing Eddie’s confusion, Richie looks around confusedly too.

“What baskets?”

“Your laundry baskets.”

“What laundry baskets?”

“What do you mean ‘what laundry baskets’? Your laundry baskets. The baskets that you put your dirty clothes in after you bathe. Those baskets.” Eddie explains, trailing off when he notices the blank look on Richie’s face. “You don’t have a laundry basket.”

“Not that I remember, nope.”

“Fucking hell, Richie. Where do you put all your dirty clothes then?”

Richie looks down at the floor all around them, then looks back at Eddie. Pretty self-explanatory if Richie should say so.

“Why do you look so surprised? It’s not like you haven’t seen this before.”

“Yeah, but— I thought that you’d _at least_ have a laundry basket or something.”

“My roomie has a basket she lets me carry my dirty clothes in.”

Eddie presses his lips together in a very tight line, nostrils flaring as he glares at Richie. His mouth opens once and then promptly closes itself, grinding his teeth together before opening his mouth again. “We’re going to need six baskets.”

“Six?” Richie asks, puzzled, “Why do we need six? Didn’t you say laundry basket as in one basket? Singular?”

“Yes, but you have— _underwear_ on the floor, Richie. We need to wash your clothes in batches. First we need to sort them out by tops, bottoms and— don’t give me that look, Richie, I swear to god.”

Richie laughs, narrowly dodging the light slap from Eddie.

“Tops, bottoms _and_ underwear. And then we’ll need to separate them based on whether or not they leak. Speaking of which— do you remember which of your clothes leak?”

“Am I.. supposed to?”

Eddie stares incredulously. “You don’t know?!”

“How would I know if they leak?!” Richie cried.

“Oh my god,” Eddie grits out, “You’re impossible. How the hell do you not know to separate your clothes like this?!”

“I just throw them all in the washing machine, okay?! They come out smelling nice and fresh and that’s the point, right?!”

“Richie, I swear to god. Just get me six baskets right now. I can’t believe how you even made it to college.”

They start to sort Richie’s clothes following Eddie’s system. Although Richie makes a lot of noise about it, much to Eddie’s chagrin, he secretly admires the way that Eddie sits in the middle of the mess, systematically picking up articles of clothing with a contemplative look and then nodding to himself as he throws them into the respective bins.

Sometimes, Eddie will consult Richie on certain pieces, usually the yellow and blues that can be tricky. Richie doesn’t remember whether they’re leaky or not, but he doesn’t really care that much either way. He knows that he won’t blame Eddie if his white shirts come out looking slightly bluish, or if his yellow hawaiian print shirts end up looking darker than he remembers.

When he’s sitting across Eddie, picking up his own underwear that Eddie will not touch, sorting out his own shorts and jeans, he tries to sneak glances at Eddie. Secretly, he thinks that Eddie’s drive to get shit done and help Richie clean his room, in spite of his allergies and general aversion to dirty things, is one of the bravest things he’s ever witnessed. More than standing his ground against his school bullies back in Derry, more than leaving Derry and opening a new chapter of his life.

It’s during one of these moments that Eddie catches Richie’s eye.

“What?”

“Just thinking about what a cutie you are,” Richie says, “The cute way that you’re trying to eviscerate my shirt with the power of your eyeballs alone.”

Eddie’s arms fall into his lap, and so does the shirt in his grip, crumpling further in the haphazard way they land. “I’d fucking eviscerate you with my eyes if I could, Richie.”

“Kinky.” Richie waggles his eyebrows at Eddie, “I love the way you talk dirty to me, Eddie.”

Eddie balls up his shirt and throws it at Richie’s face. It’s a pretty good shot because the shirt covers half of his face before sliding off, nearly pulling off his glasses with it.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, asshole. We’re never going to finish this.”

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah, what?”

“Thank you,” Richie says, laughter falling from his face. “For doing this with me.”

Richie’s words hit Eddie in waves. The first wave washes over his features with his eyebrows rising in surprise, his usually tensed jaw relaxing. Then a certain type of calm spreads, and his face becomes expressionless, still in the middle of changing into something else until it settles on something touched, grateful for his words but unable, or unwilling, to express it fully.

“You’re welcome, Richie.” Eddie says, unusually soft-spoken for what Richie knows of him so far. There’s a hanging pause where Eddie frowns down, looking torn between finishing the sentence and leaving it as it is. _Come on, Eddie,_ Richie thinks, _what are you thinking about?_

Instead, Eddie shakes his head with a tight smile. That’s the end of it.

Richie returns the smile with something that doesn’t feel natural on him. It’s the same smile he always gives to strangers or distant relatives he doesn’t quite remember. It’s the polite one that feels like a lie that he’s telling Eddie.

Richie thinks that Eddie’s smile falters for a split second. He can’t be sure because Eddie’s looking back at the shirt on his lap.

“We should at least finish washing your clothes today.” Eddie says casually, “If I’m going to have to fight my dust allergy being here, I want to minimise the days that I spend scratching my skin off my bones.”

“I’ll happily scratch your skin off your bones if you’d like.”

“How’re you going to do that?”

“With my buck teeth, of course.” Richie grins at Eddie, flashing the set of teeth that his father worked very hard on. The set of teeth that got his peers staring in envy years later. “They don’t call me Bucky Beaver for nothing.”

“That is so not funny.”

But it is funny, because Eddie’s eyes are up in half-moons and his gums are showing in his smile. It is funny because Eddie is trying to fling another shirt in Richie’s way, but it ends up in the wrong basket that Richie uses to needle Eddie into another round of bickering.

When Richie is done loading the last batch of clothes into the communal washing machine he shares with Eddie, he goes back into his room to find Eddie still seated on the floor, concentrating on something between his fingers. Richie inches forward curiously, stepping on a creaky floorboard. The sound startles Eddie, who whips around.

“What is this?” Eddie asks, waving something in his hand. Richie takes a closer look from his vantage point.

“Oh, it’s a photograph from a few years ago.” Richie reaches out to take the photo in his hands. It’s a picture of Stan, Bev and him sitting in front of the old shop, _Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes._

He doesn’t remember much about the shop, but when he sees the photo, he’s instantly reminded of a friend he used to have in Derry. Bill Denbrough, who bought his bicycle from the shop at a bargain. It was an oversized rusted piece of shit when Bill rolled it out of the store, but after a few months, it seemed that Bill had given his bike a makeover. Bill credited it to his friend who was visiting Derry and Richie had complimented Bill on his bike’s new look, and that was that.

“Oh,” Eddie echoes, “I see it now.”

There’s an empty quality to his voice, but empty isn’t the right word for it either. It sounds a lot like a sudden realisation that someone’s trying to downplay. Richie turns to Eddie and finds a strange look flash across his face before his usual deadpan expression comes back. But it’s unsettling. Richie doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t know what Eddie’s thinking about. Eddie’s usually private about his thoughts like that, but it doesn’t dispel the weirdness that’s come over Richie.

“Huh, I guess you were right afterall.” Eddie says again, but in a joking way. It’s not very light-hearted, but it does manage to break the sudden awkwardness that has displaced the easy quiet and banter that they had a while ago.

Richie looks up with a confused frown, “Not that I don’t like being told that I’m right, but what was I right about?”

“About, you know, not being able to see things you don’t know about.” Eddie explains, “I— I couldn’t see what was on the photo until you were here. I guess this was what you saw too— outside my window, and with my comics. Maybe that’s like, another rule of this place. Dreamspace.”

“Oh,” Richie cocks his head in thought, “Yeah. I guess that sounds right. Weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees weakly, “Really weird.”

“Do you think you have to be willing to show the other person something? Or can I hide stuff? Like, if I don’t want you seeing something, do you think you’ll still see it anyway?”

Eddie opens his mouth, ready to answer before he scrutinises Richie’s face, “Forget it. I don’t even wanna know.”

“Yep, thought so too.” Richie says, plopping himself next to Eddie and pointing a finger at his own face excitedly, “That’s me—”

“No shit.”

“And that’s Stan, and that’s Bev.” Richie says, finger following his words. Eddie scoots closer to Richie, enough that his breath fans against Richie’s neck.

“Are they your friends?”

“Yeah. Stan got his soulmate dream in junior year of high school and moved out to Atlanta after we graduated. His soulmate lives in Atlanta, so he decided to go to college there. And this is Bev, she’s the best. We moved into New York together, and it’s been great living with her.” Richie smiles back at Bev, who is grinning at him in the picture.

“Who’s Bev?” Eddie asks, eyeing Richie from the side with a small frown perched on his face. There’s something else in the way that he asks this, something that isn’t quite irritation but not curiosity either.

If Richie didn’t know better, he’d call it jealousy. But it’s not jealousy, because Eddie isn’t jealous. Eddie doesn’t get jealous over Richie— they’re just friends. That’s insane to even think about.

Although, Richie could probably understand if it was really jealousy. They’d been stuck here for quite a while, just the two of them. Richie would probably feel a little stung if Eddie suddenly mentioned his friends, too. It was just another reminder of how dreamspace isn’t real.

But.. still, just to clear up any possible ambiguity, Richie says, “Bev’s a friend. She met her soulmate when we moved to New York”

“Oh.” Eddie replies. Richie ignores the note of relief in there. “She’s pretty.”

“Yeah, she is. You know, it’s actually funny because things happened in reverse for her. So, she met her soulmate on the metro when we first moved to New York. There was this guy who bumped into her and he was all apologetic until he saw her face. He was completely speechless. When we were leaving, he gave her his number and told her to call him if she was interested. Well, at that point she had some interest in him. She said he was cute, kind of her type, but she wasn’t ready to jump right into dating yet.

“So they started to hang out— very casual stuff. A few months later, they had their dream and then they got together. Turns out that even before their soulmate dream, he already had a feeling about her. Like, he knew she was his soulmate or something. He said he had never given out his number like that before. His name is Ben, he’s a really cool guy. I like him a lot.”

Eddie’s eyes flitted up to meet Richie’s. “Bev and Ben are soulmates?”

“Yeah,” Richie smiles fondly at the thought of his best friend’s newfound happiness. He thinks about how she glows now with Ben in her life, and how happy they make each other. It gives him some hope about whether he could have that kind of happiness for himself one day. “They’re really sweet on each other. I could get diabetes from that kind of love.”

“If you ever get diabetes, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be from the amount of pop tarts you eat on a daily basis.”

“If you ever ate a pop tart, you’d understand my reasons, Eds. Have you even had one before?”

“My name isn’t _Eds_ , it’s _Eddie_. Stop calling me Eds you dumbass. And of course I’ve had one before. I’m not living under some rock.”

“Okay, just checking. I can’t ever be sure if you’ve had anything associated with having fun or a life.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, “The only reason why you think I don’t have any fun is because my definition of fun actually requires having a brain.”

“Ooh, brainy Eddie.” Richie says teasingly, poking a finger at Eddie’s knee which he swats away quickly. “So what does brainy Eddie like to do for fun? Play Chess? Read about quantum physics?”

“Chess is actually fun to play if you know how to play it.” Eddie quips, “There’s so many different openings and variations of openings and lines that you need to know if you’re playing chess. And then there’s also the thrill of knowing when to sac your pieces, when your opponent wrongly fianchettos his bishop and now you’re up on material, and—” Eddie pauses, smile dropping off his face, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Richie says between giggles, “It’s just that you’re over here talking about serious chess stuff and I’m just thinking about how I move all my pawns one square up the board before I move the other pieces behind.”

“Richie, literally what the fuck. You don’t even castle your king?”

“What’s that? You can build a castle for your king? Wait, is that counted as sexism? Why can’t you castle your queen?”

It’s fun to poke Eddie. It’s especially fun because Richie’s never known Eddie to be so passionate about something that isn’t health or germ-related, and now he’s witnessing a completely new side of Eddie altogether. And it’s the first time that Richie’s seeing Eddie come to life in ways he’d never known was possible. It’s interesting and fun. When Eddie continues to lecture Richie on chess, Richie continues to make stupid comments because that’s the way that they’ve always been.

Hours later when Richie is done hanging up his clothes and returns to his room, he finds Eddie lying on his bed. He’s curled up in a fetal position, with Richie’s photo still pinched between his fingers. Eddie, usually so tensed up and ready to retort whatever Richie has to say about anything, looks so at peace in his sleep. His lips are parted, and there’s a soft whistling sound that accompanies the rise and fall of Eddie’s chest. His eyes move rapidly beneath close eyelids, and his hair falls across his face.

Richie’s about to wake Eddie up, fingers just inches away from Eddie’s shoulder, when he pulls his hand away. There’s a part of him that justifies this by saying that Eddie looks tired, and he deserves a good uninterrupted rest. The more selfish side of Richie knows that there is something else under that.

Eddie is sleeping in his bed, and Richie finds that he really likes it.

Richie falls to the floor next to his bed, pulling his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees. He will regret this position tomorrow when he wakes up and his back cracks in all the different ways that it can, but that’s for future Richie to worry about. Present Richie can just sit here quietly and admire how beautiful Eddie looks. He is close enough to count the freckles sprinkled across Eddie’s skin. The slight pout in Eddie’s lips when he sleeps. Richie wants to trace the outline of Eddie’s face with his fingers, so he’ll never forget it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Richie sits there next to Eddie until his own breathing evens out and his eyelids flutter shut.

Spring approaches in the slow, creeping way that seasons always alternate among each other. Richie first notices it when the thin layer of ice stops branching across his windows, when he realises that the thermostat is warmer than usual.

He’s sitting on a tall chair at the little island they have in their kitchen. Yes, _their_ kitchen. Thinking about this never fails to make Richie’s lips twitch upwards. It feels so weird to think about the way that they demarcated the line at communal washing machines and dryers, but ended up here. Richie never allowed himself to imagine that they’d ever have this. A shared kitchen where he gets to watch Eddie bustle about, busying himself with not burning the carbonara in the pan, cooking their first meal in their kitchen.

It came as a surprise one winter morning when Eddie was stirring the cereal in his bowl, watching milk bubbles float away to the side.

“Let’s get a kitchen.”

Richie had been content to let his own cereal grow soggy. He’d given up on eating it once his coffee was finished, meaning that there was slightly more than half of his cheerios swimming in milk.

“Why do we need a kitchen? We have instant food. That’s even better than food delivery, and I _worship_ food delivery.”

Eddie made a face at Richie, “How do you worship food delivery?”

“First you get on your knees in front of the food you ordered, then you slowly unwrap your food and give a slow, tantalising lick—”

“Okay!” Eddie squeaked, covering his ears, “I don’t wanna hear this. Forget I said anything. What the fuck, Richie.”

Richie shrugged, stirring the cheerios that he wasn’t planning to eat anymore. “You asked.”

“What is it with you and sex referrences? Overcompensating much?”

“Oh, Eds,” Richie leered, “If only you knew the weight that I carry under these pants everyday, you’d say that I’m undercompensating, actually.”

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie snapped, “And you can’t fucking undercompensate by making more sex jokes, Richie. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Then how does it work?”

“You can only make more sex jokes about your sexual prowess if you have a tiny ass dick, cause you’d be overcompensating and that’s still acceptable. If you have a big ass dick, you can’t just make references to it, you’d be an asshole.”

“Big ass dick? What the hell is that? A big ass with a dick hanging from its cheeks? Or did you mean a big ass _and_ dick? That’s asking for a lot, man. What if I’ve got a big dick but no ass?”

“You don’t have a big dick.”

“So you admit that you’ve been looking?”

“I don’t need to look to know, Richie. You’re the biggest dick on Earth, but you don’t _have_ a big dick. There’s, like, a big difference there.”

“Using lots of big in there, Eddie. Overcompensating much?”

“Shut the fuck up, Tozier. So are we getting the fucking kitchen or what?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t really care. I can’t cook. I know how to pour coffee powder into my coffee machine, I know how to make instant noodles— which basically means that I can boil water without burning the place down. Sometimes I cut open an avocado and smash it on top of my toast. But that’s basically the extent of my cooking skills.”

“You just.. smash your avocado? On top of your toast?”

“That’s what I said, yeah.”

“Do you even— _season_ your food?”

“Eddie, how stupid do you think I am? Of course I do. I sprinkle salt on top of it like Salt Bae does.”

“What the fuck.” Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes, “How the hell are you even— I don’t even know how you made it through college, Richie. You can’t cook, and you can’t clean. Literally, what the fuck.”

“Most probably due to my charming, irresistible charm. And some dumb luck. And then there’s also Bev.”

Eddie huffed, “What the hell is a ‘charming, irresistible charm’? You can’t just say ‘charming charm’, that’s like saying that something is beautifully beautiful. What does that even mean?”

“It is what it is.”

“That makes no sense.”

“To you.”

“Oh my god. Shut up, Richie. Are you gonna help me with the kitchen or not?”

Richie sat up, very nearly spilling his bowl of cereal in his lap. Eddie eyed the cereal in distrust until it sloshed back into the bowl.

“You really want my help?” Richie asked, pushing his glasses up by its bridge.

“No, I don’t want your help. That’s why I’m asking you for it.” Eddie deadpanned.

“Yeah, but, like. I won’t even be in there much.”

Eddie shrugged casually, “We’ll see about that.”

“Ooh, very ominous sounding. I like that. Kind of threatening and scary. Any chance that you’ll tell me what plans you have to lure me inside?”

It turns out that while Richie doesn’t ever find out Eddie’s plans to lure him inside— or if he ever had one— Richie followed wherever Eddie goes anyway. Which meant that afternoons where Eddie was pouring over different tiles and colour combinations for the kitchen, Richie sat next to him. They’re at the point where they’re comfortable enough to touch each other without feeling awkward about it, and Richie takes every chance he gets to press his arm against Eddie’s, or to brush their fingers together like a fucking high schooler.

But Richie also noticed that it isn’t just him sneaking casual touches, but Eddie was doing it too, just more subtly than Richie was. If this doesn’t make his insides melt into a puddle of organ goo whenever Eddie’s hand ghosts over his on the floorplan (because why didn’t he think that _Eddie_ would be the kind of person to have a floorplan), then Richie doesn’t know what will.

For the most part, Richie let Eddie handle everything, from the colour of the stove to the height of each drawer in the room. He knows that Eddie liked doing it and it relieved some of the stress from the tensed line of his shoulders when he started planning. Eddie got all absorbed in it, breaking occasionally to ask for Richie’s input. Richie was even willing to go with having silver pots and pans with a mostly white kitchen because it makes it easier for Eddie to see where the stains are.

The only thing that Richie was adamant on was having an island in the kitchen.

“An island?” Eddie repeated, tilting his head in contemplation. Richie nodded.

“Yeah, like those cooking shows. With high chairs and stuff. Fruits and wine in the middle of the table with a cheeseboard on the side.”

Eddie’s eyes stared into the Smiths poster in Richie’s room, thinking about Richie’s proposal. Seconds later, Eddie was nodding as well.

“Yeah, I think that’ll work. I think it’ll be nice. You can just sit there and look pretty while I cook.”

“You think I look pretty?”

“Yeah, pretty ugly.”

“Oho, Eds gets off a good one—”

“Don’t fucking call me that. Now shut up and help me choose what kind of high chairs you’d like.”

Two weeks later (or something, because Richie isn’t really keeping track of the days anymore. He just thinks it feels like it, but it could really have been a week or a month later), there’s a new door next to the shared toilet. The door is mint coloured and the best part is that it’s an _automatic door_.

Richie turned to Eddie, “Why is it an automatic door?”

Standing with his hands on his hips slanted at an angle, Eddie smiled proudly at the door. “Because it’ll be difficult to bring food out with both hands full.”

“Fucking genius.” Richie said, ruffling Eddie’s hair and getting a slap on the wrist (literally, a slap on his wrist) for it.

Eddie’s the first one to step into the kitchen, because he deserves it. In all honesty, what Richie wanted to do is to go up to Eddie and give him a hug big enough to lift him off the floor, maybe swing him through the air a little, because the kitchen looks fucking fantastic and Richie wanted to let Eddie know that he was a goddamn genius. Instead, he says, “What the fuck, Eds.”

“What?” Eddie says back, turning around concernedly.

“This place looks amazing.”

“Wha— oh.” Eddie looks slightly flustered, more flattered. He averts his gaze, letting his fingers trail around the countertop. “Yeah, it really— turned out way better than I expected.”

“Are you kidding? You spent so much time and effort on this. It looks exactly the way I always thought it would.”

Eddie smiles at Richie. It’s not the warning smile he gives Richie sometimes when Richie is being annoying, or the one when he’s feeling shy about being so happy. It’s a new one, where Eddie is unabashedly happy at something and doesn’t want to hide it. Richie thinks it’s a good look on Eddie. Richie thinks that Eddie should definitely smile like that more often.

“So what’s the first meal you cook in here gonna be?” Richie asks, sliding onto one of the high chairs with ease. There are two high chairs— one for him and one for Eddie, obviously. Eddie walks around the island, so that he’s opposite Richie.

“I don’t know.” Eddie says, “I thought of cooking pasta. Have you ever cooked pasta before?”

Richie shakes his head, “Avocado toast. That’s the most I ever did.”

Eddie snorts, rolling his eyes fondly. “Right. I forgot. I guess I’ll have to do everything here afterall.”

“That’s not true, Eddie. I’ll be here, watching you cook in that cute little apron you have over there.”

“Richie, that’s as good as doing nothing.”

“Watching you cook is an _extremely_ important task that needs to be handled with _utmost_ care.” Richie says sternly, waving a finger in front of his face. He’s using his Naggy Angie voice, one he imagines to be an uptight nanny who heats up the milk too long, and puts children to bed by eight even if their bedtime is at ten.

Eddie scowls at Richie in distaste, “That was awful. It almost makes me miss your Wall Street Banker impression.”

Richie shrugs a shoulder, “Art is always a work in progress.”

Which brings him back to now, where Richie and Eddie are sitting at the island with a plate of carbonara spaghetti in front of them. It’s something Eddie calls easy to make, so there’s no chance of messing up. Plus, it’s quick. Richie cares less about the fact that it’s convenient, and more about the fact that Eddie cooked for Richie.

Richie glances at Eddie, “Bone apple teeth.”

“It’s _bon appetit_.”

“Bone apple tit then, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Fucking hell.”

It’s not the best pasta that Richie’s eaten because it’s slightly overcooked, and there’s the whole thing with mushrooms. Richie doesn’t hate mushrooms per se, but given the option to choose between having mushrooms and something like grilled duck, the choice is clear to Richie.

But it still warms his heart anyway. He eats every strand of noodle there is.

“That was great.” Richie says, “Although the presentation needs more work. I’d suggest more practice.”

“That’s rich, coming from a person who can only make coffee and smash avocados onto his toast.”

Richie beams at the back of Eddie’s head.

The kitchen is a great addition to dreamspace, because it occupies their time in ways that reading comics or playing games together doesn’t. Richie isn’t someone who usually sits in the same place for hours. He’s naturally restless. But being able to watch Eddie cook brings out a new calm in him that he hadn’t known was even possible.

Cooking also brings out a new side in Eddie that Richie hadn’t seen before. Eddie was always something of a worrywart. He panicked over small details and fussed over things that weren’t going to happen (yet). The kitchen gave Eddie the space to be in his natural element: where worrying _was_ important. Eddie fussed over the heat of the flame, he cared about the timer on the oven and stuck strictly to the recipes he had. But that was something good for Eddie because he wasn’t worrying about improbable things anymore— these were things that affected the outcome of the food.

Besides, being in the kitchen gave Eddie that sense of control that Richie noticed he craved. Richie wasn’t gonna prod too deeply into it— some things were better left for when they were ready to talk about it— but he could tell that Eddie liked being in control of the tiny details. Micromanaging things.

Richie was happy to push this thought to the back of his mind, shelved in boxes in cupboards that he never opened. An assortment of pandora boxes lay in that far corner of his mind. It wasn’t that Richie wasn’t ever going to talk about it, but he just thought that the time would come a lot later.

Funny how things almost always seems to work out exactly the opposite of how you expect them to.

It’s Richie’s birthday today. He thinks so, anyway, if the calendar on the kitchen wall is right.

Most of his birthdays back in Derry were spent with a simple celebration with his family. His mother, Maggie Tozier, would bake a cake for him. She enjoys doing things to spoil Richie and this is one of the ways that she expresses her love for Richie. His father, Wentworth Tozier, would try to surprise Richie with a gift (often in collaboration with Maggie), and depending on what his current obsession would be, Richie usually got something nice.

Stan and Bev would buy him a cake and stick a small candle in the middle of it. They’d celebrate by the barrens, and then play for a while in the cold water of the Kenduskeag. Sometimes, if they stayed late enough, they could see stars flickering over their heads in the gradually darkening sky. Little white dots shimmering like dancers in a long awaited performance.

His birthdays were usually a loud affair because of who he was as a person. But today, in dreamspace, Richie spent it in a pensive mood, quietly reflecting on the years he’d spent in Derry, the growing up he’d done in his parents’ absence all the way in New York, and now in Eddie’s presence.

For most of the day, Richie had tried to pretend to be his normal self— that is to say that he’d be as obnoxious as ever to Eddie. In the beginning, Eddie reacted exactly as he would, but as the day went on, it seemed like Eddie had caught onto the weirdness of his behaviour, and oddly quiet and thoughtful pauses. Richie could see the way that Eddie glimpsed at him once in a while with a crease between his brows, wanting to talk to Richie but not wanting to disturb or upset Richie. On normal days, Richie would tease Eddie about it. But today was not a normal day, and Richie was definitely not feeling up for it today.

In the end, he gives up all pretence and retreats into his own shell. He sneaks away after dinner, standing in front of an empty space in the white nothingness of dreamspace. So far, they’ve only recreated simple rooms, so he doesn’t know if this will work or not. But it’s worth a shot anyway.

Richie closes his eyes and thinks about the Kenduskeag. He thinks about the lush greenery that grows around the river, the small and narrow paths made from walking patterns. He thinks about the way that insects fly into his face when he’s climbing up the trees. Days spent smoking cigarettes with Bev by the edge of the flowing water, Stan sitting away to avoid the secondhand smoke.

When he opens his eyes, a small brown door appears in front of him. There are little green vines that creep along the side, reminding him so much of the dense forest.

In a daze, Richie opens the door, although with a moment of hesitance. The door creaks open to reveal the barrens as Richie remembers it in spring. There’s the sound of water flowing downstream, running into small rocks in its way. The sky looks blurred in a thin veil of white that breaks unevenly, revealing baby blues that Richie always liked admiring. The grass has started growing in full again, and the heat of the sun hasn’t settled into the air yet. It’s just a spotlight without heat, lighting up the barrens.

Richie feels his feet carry him forward. There’s only one place he really hangs out with Stan and Bev here, and it’s at a small clearing. It’s the place where they used to hide from Bowers and his cronies who weren’t flexible enough to avoid the branches and jumping roots of the trees. Bill Denbrough was the one who introduced them to his hiding spot, but Bill wasn’t a close friend in the way that Bev or Stan was. Bill was Bill— he was everybody’s friend. Whenever Richie spent time with Bill, it was fun and interesting, but they never got beyond the point of friends to close friends.

Richie sits on a sparse spot in the grass, flattened and literally Richie-made with years of rubbing his butt on it.

The sun was already below the line of the Kenduskeag, throwing the sky into a dull array of purple and pink. It’s not Richie’s favourite kind of sunsets. The one he likes are those where the sky is on fire with vibrant shades of orange, yellow and red. He doesn’t get to see them often, which is why he likes them best.

The barrens is different without Stan, Bev or even Bill around. It is much quieter, and even boring to an extent. Sure, Richie can play in the water or skip stones on its surface, he can even pluck blades of grass and try to make a flower crown of grass like Bev had done once for him. But it’s not the same.

Richie never imagined spending his twenty-third birthday missing his friends like this.

When the sun has fully set, the sky goes darker and darker until white spots start twinkling in the sky.

“Happy birthday, Richie.” Richie says to himself, resting his chin on his arms. He’s sitting on the ground with his knees to his chest and arms on top of his knees now, hugging his legs tighter to him to preserve some body heat.

There’s nothing else in here but him. Richie’s eyelids droop in sadness.

“It’s your birthday?” someone pipes up from behind him. Richie whips his head around, finding an Eddie-like silhouette a distance away from him.

“Eddie?” Richie says. The silhouette begins marching forward until Eddie towers over him, hands on his hips with a frown on his face.

“It’s your birthday?” Eddie barks angrily, “And you didn’t tell me?”

Richie looks up. Eddie does look kind of upset at him, but also, “Are you angry at me for not telling you?” Richie asks back incredulously. What the fuck.

“Yes.” Eddie throws his hands above his head. “ _Obviously_. What the hell, Richie? Why didn’t you tell me that it was your birthday? We could’ve done something instead of watching you sulk the entire day.”

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to do anything!” Richie says, “And I wasn’t _sulking_ , I was thinking.”

“Well, at least give me the option of doing something for you, asshole.” Eddie grumbles.

“Okay, fine! I’m sorry. Maybe I should’ve told you.”

“Maybe?” the corner of Eddie’s lips quirks. Richie sighs.

“Yeah, maybe. That’s the best I can do.”

Eddie nudges Richie’s leg, “Move over, asshole.”

“What? Why?”

“The grass is flatter where you’re sitting.”

“Eddie, the grass will be flat wherever you sit.” Richie says, rolling his eyes but scooting over anyway. Eddie huffs as he plants himself next to Richie. “How’d you know where to find me, anyway?”

“Ah, yes. The great mystery of the disappearance of Richie Tozier and the sudden appearance of a door leading to the barrens.”

Richie snorts, shaking his head before he realises what Eddie just said. “Wait. Eds—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You know this place?”

Eddie’s eyes wander around the place, looking to the body of water languidly moving along a few metres from them, to the trees behind. “Yeah. I mean, it looks a bit different than the last time I came here, but yeah. I remember this place.”

Richie’s heart is pounding in his chest.

“I was from Derry, Richie. From the look on your face, and the very detailed reconstruction of this place, you must have lived in Derry too.”

“Yeah, Eddie. What the fuck. Since when were you from Derry?”

“Since.. I was born?”

“And you knew about this? That I was from Derry too?”

Eddie chews on his lip. Guilt colours his cheeks as he looks away, “I wasn’t really sure. I mean, I thought that the shop in your photo looked familiar, but I didn’t know for sure. Not until I came here, anyway.”

“And you just knew to find me here?”

Eddie’s eyes snap back to meet Richie’s in a fiery stare. “I wasn’t following you, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve actually been here many times before, this exact place. My friend and I used to play here a lot before I moved away. We came here specifically so no one else could find us easily.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier? You knew that I lived in Derry too and didn’t tell me?”

“Well, you would ask why I left, and what was I supposed to say? That my father died when I was five and I had a serious case of bronchitis after that? That my mom was worried about me until she was literally sick? That I was allergic to basically every fucking thing in the world? That I was bullied and chased by a bunch of grade A assholes who threw all my medication into the Kenduskeag? I’m not overly fond of Derry so you can _excuse me_ for not wanting to talk about this shit town.”

Richie reels back, stung with a mix of hurt and guilt. He didn’t know that Eddie had gone through all of that; he didn’t know about Eddie’s dead father (although he wondered why Eddie only ever mentioned his mother a few times), he didn’t know about Eddie being bullied— probably by fucking Bowers again.

Fuck, he feels like the world’s biggest piece of shit.

“I’m sorry.” Richie blurts out, “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t know if I can be angry at you for not knowing. I guess I’m not sure if I can be angry at you on your birthday either, even if you deserve it.” Richie laughs softly, offering a tentative smile to Eddie. Eddie gives him a dirty look before sighing, “I’m sorry that I didn’t mention it earlier, but I didn’t want to talk about Derry. I hate this place. I can’t wait to get out of this shit hole.”

“I get it.” Richie says, “I hate Derry too. Moved out of there with Bev immediately after graduating from high school. God, I can’t stand the thought of going back there for Christmas every year. It literally gives me bad fucking chills just thinking about that place.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “I thought that I was out of there until my mom decided to move back after I graduated high school in Bangor. She said that she was falling ill and wanted to move back home. And, I mean, what can I say to that? No, ma, I think I’ll take care of myself in college so you take care too? I couldn’t. I mean, she’s my _ma_. I had to take care of her, because she..”

Eddie breaks eye contact, but Richie catches the way that Eddie’s eyes darken. It was like watching someone close their fingers on a flame, the way that the room goes dark when the only flame goes off.

“She took care of me for my entire life, too.” Eddie says. His voice is wiped of any emotion. It feels like a machine recording.

Richie really doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s always had something to say, but he knows without knowing how, that they’re walking on thin ice here. Eddie obviously has other thoughts about his mother that he isn’t elaborating on now, which was fine. Richie isn’t going to be an asshole and a douchebag and force Eddie to talk about things that he obviously isn’t ready to share yet.

“Well, I fucking hate Derry too. It’s a real piece of shit place to be. Sometimes I think that it’s not just the people’s fault, but the town itself is a festering wound.”

Eddie looks up, sceptical. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was bullied heavily too. I mean, I didn’t get my belongings tossed into the water. But I did get a broken nose once.”

“Why were you bullied?”

Many memories come rushing to the forefront of Richie’s mind. He thinks about Bowers yelling “Bucky Beaver!” before launching into a chase. He thinks about the time that Belch Huggins and Victor Criss starting throwing rocks at Stan, Bev and him across the Kenduskeag while Bowers lay incapacitated at their feet. But mostly, Richie thinks of the time that Bev had led him to this exact spot and told him about the marker graffiti left on the walls of the girl’s bathroom.

_Richie Tozier sucks cock._

He remembers the way that Bev rubbed her thumb over his knuckles with their knees pressing against each other’s, the way she looked into his eyes with heartbreak and told him about the way that she tried to scrub it off, but it reappeared everytime it faded. It wasn’t anything new by then, he’d heard the rumours, seen the looks, felt the eyes boring into the back of his head when he went around town.

But he’d still cried that day that Bev told him about the graffiti. He didn’t understand why he did, but something in him broke that afternoon. Richie knew that he was gay, but he didn’t know what it meant to accept being gay in a town where everyone was openly homophobic. He didn’t want any of it and had always tried to mask his sexuality with too many jokes and comments about women but the truth had circled around town and found him anyway.

Richie Tozier sucks cock. Richie Tozier is _gay_.

It was the most that he remembered crying in his life. He didn’t cry when Maggie had grounded him for breaking his new glasses, when she flatly refused to believe that it was the work of some bullies than his own clumsiness. He didn’t cry when Bowers spit on his face in front of the entire canteen of students. But he cried that afternoon until he could feel his lips swell.

It was that afternoon that Bev made a promise to Richie: they’d get out of Derry together after they graduated from high school and find their happiness in life. Until that point, it had always been an unspoken agreement between the both of them; whenever Bev found him trying to tape back the frame of his broken glasses with a fresh bruise purpling on his cheek, or whenever Richie found Bev smoking under the tree with distinctly hand-like marks around her wrist and red-rimmed eyes from the night before. They knew that they would take the first flight out of Derry and leave everything behind. But Bev’s promise had made it more real to them. This was going to happen, so they’d better stay alive for that moment.

Richie remembers how, with shaking hands and fat tears still rolling down his cheeks, he made the same promise back to Bev. They made a pinkie swear, a few sticks and more tears between them before Stan showed up that afternoon, wrinkling his nose at the stench of smoke that lingered in the air thanks to the small bodies of cigarette butts lined up between them.

_I was bullied because I’m gay, Eddie_ , Richie thinks.

“I was bullied for a lot of things. You already know about me being called Bucky Beaver. It was one reason why I was bullied.”

But it wasn’t the main reason.

“Oh.” Eddie replies. If Eddie knows that Richie’s being evasive, he doesn’t comment on it. “When did you move to Derry, anyway? I don’t remember seeing you around when I was younger, and I definitely don’t remember seeing you around when my mother brought me back every year.”

“I moved to Derry when I was eight. Worst decision my parents ever made, and _they_ call me the bad decision maker.” Richie scoffs, “My dad managed to open a dental clinic in Derry for a low cost. I still have no idea why it had to be Derry of all places.”

“Oh, I left Derry when I was seven. My mom said that my teachers didn’t understand how sick I was. The exact words she used were ‘They don’t know how fragile you are.’ and that stuck with me for.. years. Even after we moved to Bangor, I kept thinking of how fragile I was. It was.. terrible, honestly.”

“Shit, Eds, that must have sucked.”

Eddie laughs humourlessly, “That’s one way of putting it.”

“I guess Derry people are all fucked in one way or another, huh? We either fuck people up or get fucked up by people. No one comes out of Derry a virgin cause it fucks us all.”

“I’m pretty sure that you just appropriated the quote about life to shit on Derry.”

“Yeah but who cares? It’s true, anyway. It’s a wonder how Derry is still around with the number of people leaving it.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “And one day, I’ll be one of them too.”

“Of course you will,” Richie says matter-of-factly, nudging Eddie with his elbow with an encouraging upward tug on his lips, “You’re Eds Spagheds, nothing can stop you.”

“Can ‘Eds Spagheds’ stop you from calling me all sorts of names _but_ my actual name?”

“Sadly, that’s the one thing that Eds Spagheds can’t do. Sorry, pal.”

Eddie’s own smile is shaky, but hopeful. And honestly, that’s the best that Richie thinks anyone striving to get out of Derry can do.

He doesn’t talk about how they’ve both established that they are _not_ part of each other’s subconscious. He doesn’t talk about how they’ve both established that they must be alive in the real world. He definitely doesn’t talk about how this means that it is almost confirmed for them to be soulmates. And maybe it would’ve shaken Eddie up if he didn’t already have his own suspicions about Richie being from Derry. But now they know for sure: they’re both very real people, sharing the same dream for the second time.

It also gets Richie thinking about something else: the fact that Eddie was in Derry when Richie was there too. The fact that they were in the same town and never met before. That they’re probably soulmates and missed each other by the same twist of fate that brought them together.

Richie finds that it’s surprisingly easy to imagine meeting Eddie in Derry. He can imagine kicking the back of Eddie’s chair in class and riling up the smaller boy and seeing him unable to get revenge on Richie in class. He can imagine going to Eddie’s house after class, or Eddie coming to his house. Richie can see the way that his mother would adore Eddie and cut him a slice of cake or pie from her afternoon bakes. He can imagine the way that Stan would judge them when they bicker, he can see the way that Bev would stick to Eddie like opposite poles of magnets.

“We could’ve met each other back in Derry. Can you imagine it?”

Eddie snorts, “Yeah, it would be my mom’s worst nightmare. You’re bad fucking influence, Tozier.”

“Nah, the only time that I’m your mom’s worst nightmare is when I don’t show up in her room at night.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Richie. Every _single_ time. I swear to god.”

“There’s no need to be jealous, Eddie. Unfortunately for her and fortunately for you, I’m here and not in her bed so you can be rest assured of my undivided attention.”

“Fuck you.” Eddie says, “Dickhead. I can’t believe you’re making me swear at you on your birthday.”

“Yeah, Eds. I can’t believe you’re swearing at the birthday boy. Is this how you typically celebrate your friends’ birthdays?”

Eddie looks away, “No.”

“No?”

“Yeah. I don’t— you can’t. I couldn’t celebrate my friends’ birthdays because I didn’t have them, okay? I wasn’t, like, the quarterback star or anything. I was a scrawny hypochondriac wearing a fanny pack. It wasn’t exactly something many people wanted to be associated with. Not in elementary school, not in middle school, definitely not in high school.”

Richie’s face crumples. Eddie catches the look on Richie’s face in time to cut off whatever Richie was going to say.

“I’m not trying to start a pity party, okay? It is what it is. I had all of one friend before I moved out of Derry, and then I made a total of one new friend in community college while reconnecting with the old friend I had. That’s a grand total of two. And that’s quick maths for you.”

“Your quick maths sucks, Eddie. How the hell do you do that complicated physics shit as a mechanical engineer when you can’t even count properly?”

Eddie frowns in confusion, cocking his head to the side and letting his fringe fall across his forehead. “Huh?”

“Friend one plus friend two plus the best friend of all, Richie Tozier, makes three. Duh.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “Yeah, but we’re talking about _real_ friends here, doofus.”

Richie’s heart slows down, a weird numbing feeling rushing through his veins. “What are you talking about?” he chuckles nervously, willing the feeling of panic to stop.

“I’m talking about people we’ve met in real life. You know, _real_ friends.”

It shouldn’t hurt Richie, because this probably isn’t what Eddie means. But then, what the fuck _did_ Eddie mean by that? Was it not enough that they’ve spent months here together? That they got along, argued over shitty X-men characters and cheated in Mario Kart? That they built a kitchen together as well? What does all that mean then?

“I’m your real friend, too, Eddie.” Richie says in a small voice, “I thought we’ve just established that we’re both real people. Since I’m real, and I’m your friend, I’m a real friend too.”

“Yeah, maybe. But it’s different anyway. I mean, you’re here. And my real friends are out there.” Eddie laughs to himself, like as if it was a private joke only he would understand. It most probably was, because Richie doesn’t understand what’s so funny about it. He can’t understand if there’s anything he should be laughing at. Why is Eddie laughing?

Is it at the thought that he’d never be a “real friend”? Is it at the thought that Richie wants to be that to Eddie?

He doesn’t know.

When Richie doesn’t reply, Eddie does a double take, face falling when he sees the wounded expression on Richie’s face.

“Are you—” Eddie pauses, scratching his neck confusedly, “Are you upset? By what I said?”

“Should I not be?” Richie laughs derisively.

“You know I didn’t mean it that way.” Eddie says defensively, folding his arms over his chest.

Now Richie was well and truly upset.

“Yeah? I didn’t know that there were other ways to take it.” Richie snaps, standing up. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. The hurt from Eddie’s words aren’t just emotional, but manifesting physically in the way that his chest hurts and the way that his brain is beginning to shut down his thoughts. He doesn’t wanna be here anymore, he doesn’t want to sit here and think about the fun that he’s having and knowing that it’s only one-sided.

Eddie’s head whips up, mouth falling open in shock, as if realising, _really_ realising, that Richie was upset.

“Richie—” Eddie begins, reaching a hand out to.. what? To what? Richie moves away, avoiding Eddie’s touch. This simple move causes Eddie to withdraw his hand quickly, as if _he_ were the one who’d been burned, hurt. “Come on, Rich. I mean, we don’t even know if each other really exists in—”

“Wow.” Richie throws his head back. Angry tears begin filling his eyes. He blinks them back, willing himself not to cry right now. He can’t cry right now. “Even after talking about all of this— that we’re both from Derry— and you still have doubts about whether I really exist?”

Eddie flinches, but then sets his face in a determined look quickly. “Well, how do I really know that you’re not just some part of my subconscious? Don’t you think it’s _too coincidental_ that we have both lived in Derry? How many soulmates live on the same continent? Much less the same country, the same town?”

And now it really hurts, because Richie realises that all his realisations were purely his own. He thought that Eddie had come to the same conclusion, he believed that they could finally move on from the shitty “I don’t know if you’re a real person” excuse. But Eddie hasn’t. It was all unreciprocated hopeful wishing on Richie’s part.

Richie finds himself barking out a harsh, icy laugh. “No, Eddie. I really don’t think it’s too coincidental. I don’t know why it’s so difficult for you to accept that I’m a real person. And even if I’m not, even if I _am_ just a part of your subconscious, why does that mean that our friendship is any less real?”

“Because you wouldn’t be real, Richie. How can a friendship be real if the friend is not?”

Richie wants to laugh, but he really doesn’t find _any_ of this funny. He finds it insulting and painful. There’s a crushing feeling in his chest, as if someone had injected a ten-ton brick into his system.

“Amazing. You know, when I woke up today, I wasn’t expecting anything. But this…?” He shakes his head, wearing a sarcastic smirk with watery eyes and chest tight with anger, “This fucking blows. Thanks for the best birthday ever.” Richie murmurs spitefully.

He doesn’t know why he says this. Part of him thinks it’s to hurt Eddie like how he’s been hurt, but it strikes Richie as odd because he’s never been someone who ever wanted revenge. Sure, he’d like to see Bowers and his evil friends get their karma, but he doesn’t want to take active action to do it. He doesn’t like hurting people, so he doesn’t know why he says this to Eddie, knowing deep down that it would hurt Eddie.

Eddie recoils visibly, as if he’d been struck. It worked, but Richie feels even more awful than ever. In another world, a Richie who is less proud would’ve apologised immediately. But in this world, Richie swallows thickly and runs off, leaving Eddie alone in the dark.

He doesn’t care that it’s his birthday anymore. He doesn’t care that he hasn’t seen Stan or Bev or his family in months anymore. The little spark of guilt in his heart has started a forest fire that is spreading quickly. It burns under his skin, consuming his lungs and restricting it painfully. It burns under his eyes, when they prickle with tears and spill over at the sides. It burns in his thoughts, everything going back to the fact that Eddie didn’t think of Richie as a real friend, despite the fact that they’ve pretty much established that they’re both very much alive in the real world. Despite the fact that they may very well be soulmates.

It hurts. It hurts a lot.

He slams his room door shut, hoping for the force of it to give some satisfaction. It doesn’t. It just feels like a child’s tantrum.

It _is_ a child’s tantrum. But it hurts all the same.

Richie throws himself onto his bed, ripping off his glasses carelessly and flinging it god knows where. Fuck it. He doesn’t have the emotional capacity to care about it right now anyway.

He buries his face into his pillow, letting his hot tears create a darker patch in the middle of the fabric.

Truthfully, he stops crying shortly after he stops trying not to. Richie supposes it makes sense that he doesn’t want to cry when he can, because it’s the time when he gets to feel his emotions instead of trying to hide behind a strong front. The anger has washed out of his system by now, but the hurt still circulates around, making it a point to grow more viscous with each round it makes.

Richie just doesn’t understand how Eddie was able to live the past few months thinking that Richie was just a figment of his imagination. He doesn’t understand how Eddie could think that Richie isn’t as real as he is. Even if Richie isn’t sure how he’s here, in his soulmate dream again, he’s never had a serious doubt about Eddie’s existence.

He just can’t understand how Eddie could laugh with him like that, how Eddie could touch him like that and think that Richie isn’t real.

Richie turns around miserably, sniffling and rubbing the half-dried tear tracks off his face. Fake Jeff looks down at him in sympathy, quietly listening to Richie’s soft weeping sounds.

“Thanks, Jeff.” Richie says, “You always know what to say.”

Fake Jeff would have snorted if he could, which makes Richie smile through his puffy eyes.

With a loud sigh, Richie digs up his Switch from under his blanket, switching on The Witcher 3 to play until he falls asleep. He doesn’t want to see Eddie for the rest of the day, he doesn’t want to think of Eddie until he wakes up and feels better about it.

It feels like a long time has passed. Richie knows this because his hand begins to grow tired, and his fingers start feeling sore from pressing the buttons ferociously. His already heavy eyelids droop further as he yawns, nearly dislocating his jaw like he’s seen his classmate do once. Poor kid wasn’t able to close his jaw for the few hours it took for them to push it back in place while he was sleeping.

It’s when Richie is turning off his Switch when the door creaks open. Richie looks up curiously, although it feels like he’s glaring with how puffy his eyes have gotten.

Eddie steps into the room timidly, holding onto a plate with a hand. There’s a cake on it without any cream or decorations. It looks like it’s fresh out of the oven. In the middle of the cake stands a small candle with a small flame dancing at its tip. Eddie cups a hand around the flame as he approaches Richie with apologetic eyes and a crease between his brows, lips downturned in hesitance.

Richie doesn’t say anything, but he sits upright and pulls the blanket away, creating a space next to him on the bed. Eddie sits down cautiously, moving the cake between them.

From a better angle, Richie can see the way that the cake crumbles at the sides and splits down from the curved, brown top, revealing yellow insides. It’s a butter cake. It looks like the kind of butter cake that his mother used to bake for him when he was much younger, before she started decorating her cakes with elaborate icing designs and fondant.

“I’m sorry.” Eddie says, holding eye contact with Richie. His eyebrows are pinched with shame and he looks squeamish, but he sits still with the cake between his hands, “I’m sorry that I upset you earlier.”

Richie nods half-heartedly.

“I.. I know that you’re real, Richie. I’ve known for a while.” Eddie pauses, the frown on his face deepening in thought, “I.. I’m scared. I don’t know what this all means if you’re not just.. some part of my subconscious, you know? I don’t know how you’re.. here.”

Eddie shakes his head in self-admonishment, biting the inside of his cheeks before he looks back at Richie. “But, I— it’s not an excuse. I’m not trying to make excuses for what I said earlier. You’re right. You’re my friend, Richie. You’re as real as all my friends are, and there is no excuse for what I said earlier. I’m sorry, I was being an asshole to you. And on your birthday no less. I’m such an asshole.”

Richie rubs his nose tiredly, closing his eyes while blowing the candle. It goes out with a large sway to the side.

When Richie opens his eyes again, he says, “You’re not an asshole. You’re my friend. And you baked me a cake for my birthday, too.”

Eddie laughs, although it sounds weak, “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Okay, fine. You can be an asshole sometimes. But you’re still my friend.” Richie offers a small smile.

Eddie returns Richie’s smile. It’s really just a small upward tug on the corner of his chapped lips, but it’s one that reaches his eyes, twinkling like the stars that Richie saw earlier.

“Did you make a wish?” Eddie asks.

“No, what for?”

Eddie sighs, putting the cake on his lap so that he can rub his temples, “Why not? You get one wish a year. Don’t you want to wish for something?”

“No. Not really. I don’t have anything I really want that I don’t have.”

“Really? There’s nothing else that you want?”

Richie looks at Eddie. There’s no hurt left in him, nothing but the redness on his face and the swell of his eyes and lips from his bout of crying. Instead, there’s a distinct sort of happiness that seeps in, filling the void left by the negative emotions that have dissipated. It’s a very particular sort of happiness that is associated only with Eddie.

“Nah,” Richie says, “I think I’m quite happy as I am right now.”

What he says to Eddie isn’t a lie. It’s not even half a lie, which Richie has a tendency to do sometimes.

He finds that he’s really happy in dreamspace with Eddie.

Richie realises that it’s not about what they’re doing that is important— it isn’t. Richie could just be sitting at the island, nursing a cup of hot chocolate that Eddie learns to customise to Richie’s tastes (which means that it’s thicker and sweeter than the one Eddie makes for himself, which doesn’t have torched marshmallows on it), and Richie would still have more fun than he would if it were other people pacing around the kitchen, stirring a bowl of baby vomit in their arms with flour on their arms.

Over spring, Eddie’s obsession— aside from trying to cook— is learning to bake. Richie is more than happy to sit at the counter and comment on Eddie’s attempts at baking. What do you mean that’s what folding is? Why do you need to laminate puff pastry, _how_ do you stick dough through that tiny machine?

Today, Eddie is trying to make some meringue cookies, which also means that Richie gets to keep saying, “Eddie, the recipe clearly says this needs to be perky. That is not perky at all.”

Eddie stabs the spatula into the white foam, glaring at Richie without heat. “How fucking perky do you expect sugar to be, Richie? This is perky enough, it _stands_.”

“No, you can’t just— _judge_ it based on the standing. You need to do the topsy turvy.”

“What the hell is the topsy turvy?”

“You overturn the spoon thing and see if it’s sharp enough to stab something.”

“I’ll overturn the spoon and stab you if you don’t shut up.”

Richie smiles sweetly at Eddie, batting his eyelashes at the smaller man. “You’re so romantic when you’re sweet talking to me.”

Eddie sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose with eyes closed and turned away. What Eddie doesn’t know is that his fingers have smears of meringue on it, and all he does is to swipe it across his nose.

Richie stares at the white line across Eddie’s nose.

When Eddie goes to pick up the bowl again, getting ready to whisk it, he catches Richie’s weird stare. Raising a brow, he asks, “What?”

“You’ve got a little—” Richie points towards his own nose, circling around vaguely. Eddie puts down the bowl, reaching for his face. “No, wait. You’ve got that white stuff all over your fingers.”

“‘White stuff’.” Eddie scoffs, “It’s called meringue, Richie.”

“Whatever. It’s still white and it’s _stuff_. Come here, let me just..” Richie leans across the island, using his own thumb to wipe across the white smear on Eddie’s face. When his finger brushes the skin, it sends shivers up his own arm. The skin under the pad of his thumb feels weirdly tingly, but in the good way that Richie wants to feel again.

He blinks, looking at Eddie’s eyes up close. He can see the way that Eddie’s eyes widens, holding his breath with their closeness. Eddie looks shocked, but.. pleasantly surprised?

Richie pulls away, wiping the meringue on his yellow hawaiian print shirt. But they’re still staring at each other, both with pink cheeks and a twitch on their lips that they try to suppress. The tension between them isn’t palpable, but it’s definitely getting there. Distantly, Richie wonders if the buzzing under his skin is something also uniquely associated with Eddie.

“You should, uh, probably wash your hands. Or something.” Richie stammers. Eddie swallows thickly, nodding stiffly as he turns around to wash his hands.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, voice weird with an emotion that Richie can’t place, “Maybe you— you should help me whisk my meringue.”

“ _Me_?”

“Yeah, who else would I be talking to here, dumbass?”

Richie scoffs, “Oh, I see how it is. When I tell you to get a mixer, what do you say? _Oh, no, Richie, I don’t need a mixer. I don’t want to clutter the kitchen_.”

But he scoops the bowl into his arms anyway, starting to whisk the meringue. It’s not his first time helping Eddie to hand-mix his batter, and he highly doubts that it will be his last time.

“Yeah, obviously. Why do I need a mixer? I’ve got you, even if you’re annoying and slow as hell.” Eddie says with a cryptic smile.

It’s a smile that Richie sees through the change in the seasons, when the sun stays in the sky for a longer time and when the heat begins to permeate the air, making Richie’s shirts stick uncomfortably like a second layer of skin. Cicadas come out to cry and the mosquitoes haunt the barrens in search of prey.

Eddie is busy spraying on some mosquito repellent when Richie runs into the water in nothing but his boxers, kicking about and sending splashes of water everywhere. Eddie jumps when a few droplets land on his leg, scowling at Richie.

“Stop it!” Eddie says fiercely, wiping away the droplets of water from his skin, “You’re getting water on me.”

“Yeah, that’s where I am. You know, where the water is. Just in case you decide to stop swimming in sunblock and mosquito repellent and join me where the fun actually is. In the water."

“Sunblock and mosquito repellent are important, okay? Do you not see the fucking sun up there?”

Richie looks up, shielding his eyes with a hand. “No,” he drawls, “I can’t see the fucking sun.”

“Fuck you, dickwad.” Eddie scowls, “You’re gonna get fucking skin cancer in ten years and we’ll see who’ll be laughing then.”

“Dude, this is like, a dream. Alright? I’m not gonna get fucking skin cancer in a dream where I can magically cure myself.”

“Too bad you can’t cure yourself of the obviously lethal disease you have.”

“What’s that?”

“Dumbass disease.”

“Ooh, Eds gets off a good one!” Richie yells, splashing water in Eddie’s direction again. Eddie yells out a string of very creative and colourful curses, scrambling to his feet to get to higher ground.

“You are such a turd,” Eddie says, scowling at Richie. “The biggest turd ever.”

“And you’re a little turd,” Richie says cheerily, “We can be a pair of matching turds together.”

“Wait, why am I the little one?” Eddie asks, “Are we talking about how shitty our personalities are? Or are we comparing—”

“Eds, it’s so cute that you’re thinking about _criteria_ for comparing the size of our turdiness. But if you really want to argue about it, I was talking about height, man. You’re tiny. Obviously, you’re the little turd.”

“Fuck you.”

“But if you really wanna compare the turdiness of our personalities,” Richie snickers under his breath, “Then you’d be the big turd.”

“You’re the most deluded piece of shit ever.” Eddie grumbles, looking around the ground before settling into the spot that’s flatter than the rest. Richie’s expression falls.

“You’re really not gonna come into the water?”

“Can’t.” Eddie says, shaking his head with lips pressed into a thin line, “My mom says—” he stops himself mid-sentence, shaking his head in admonishment, “I can’t go into the water. I fall sick easily when my feet gets wet.”

“What?” Richie says. He caught it the first time, but he just cannot bring himself to believe the shit he’s just heard.

“I fall sick easily when my feet gets wet,” Eddie explains again patiently, looking down at his bare feet with regret clouding in his eyes, “I don’t play in the water because I don’t wanna risk catching a cold. If I fall sick, my mom would rush me to the ER and check me into the hospital for the week.”

Richie stares wordlessly at Eddie, jaw hanging slack and chin tilting downwards, like there was an invisible weight attached to his chin.

“You’ve never played in the Kenduskeag before?” Richie asks incredulously.

Eddie shakes his head in confirmation, “No.” he confesses, breaking eye contact with Richie with what looks like a mix of frustration and regret on his face. Richie can understand the regret. He’d regret not being able to play in the Kenduskeag too. But the frustration?

Where is that coming from? Where is that directed at?

“Anyway,” Richie says, clearing his throat intentionally, “You’re probably right, you know.”

This catches Eddie’s attention, since Richie never admits outrightly that Eddie’s right about something health-related. “What?”

“Did you know that the water in the Kenduskeag used to be gray water?”

“What the hell’s gray water?”

“Derry piss and wash water.” Richie shrugs casually. Eddie gags.

“What the fuck?” Eddie says, scandalised. “Then why the hell are you standing in there? You splashed Derry pee on me?!”

“The operational word is ‘ _used to be’_ , Eds. Chill. Even I wouldn’t be playing in millions of gallons of Derry pee.”

“Firstly, dickhead, that’s 3 words. Secondly, I don’t believe you. If anything, you’re _exactly_ the kind of guy who would play in piss.”

“Okay, that’s kind of true. I don’t remember if I’ve ever played _in_ pee before but I’ve definitely played with my pee before.”

“What the fuck.”

“Haven’t you ever tried to draw something in the snow with your pee before?”

“No?!” Eddie says, screwing up his nose like he’d smell something rotten, “That’s disgusting, Rich. Do you— _please_ tell me that you did it in your backyard, at least.”

“Of course I did. I’m not a fucking exhibitionist.” Richie snorts.

“I really wouldn’t put anything past you, Richie. You continue to amaze me.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises. Just when you think you know me.. Bam! You learn something new about me. I put the fun in life, baby.”

“There’s no ‘fun’ in ‘life’, Richie.”

“Yeah, that’s why I _put_ it in there, Eddie. Aren’t you listening to me?”

“That’s so not funny,” Eddie says, as if the hand he’s using to cover his mouth is supposed to hide the fact that he’s giggling at Richie’s words. Richie’s brain sizzles at the soft laughter falling from Eddie’s lips, does a temporary shut down before rebooting when Eddie says, “Seriously, though. Aren’t you going to put on some sunblock at least?”

“No?” Richie replies like it’s a question, “What’s the point?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, resting his chin on top of his knees, “You’re totally gonna regret this tomorrow when you come crying to me about a bad sunburn or something.”

Richie scoffs, spinning around in the water with his arms wide open, “I’m not gonna come crying to you or anything.”

Richie is at least proud to say that he doesn’t _cry_ when he finds Eddie the next day, shirtless because his skin is on fire with the flames of all seven levels of hell. Trying to fit his head through his crew neck black shirt? Painful as fuck. Actually having the shirt touch his skin and _rub against it like sandpaper_?

Richie isn’t proud to say that he weeped and died on the inside.

But at least Eddie only sighs in his usual dramatic, exasperated fashion, and holds his hand, leading him to the kitchen. He sits Richie down on the high chair while he fetches a tube of aloe vera gel from the fridge.

“I knew that your dumb ass would regret this.” Eddie says by way of explanation, opening the cap and pouring a generous handful of gel on his hand.

“But it’s all okay in the end because I’ve got doctor K. here to nurse me back to health.” Richie coos, bending over so that Eddie can have better access to his back. Eddie slaps Richie’s back lightly, but it still hurts like a motherfucker anyway. Richie jumps and hisses in pain. “What the fuck!”

Eddie’s frown becomes apologetic, “I’m sorry.” he says at first, “But you’re such an idiot. What were you thinking, not putting on any sunblock yesterday? Did you not feel how fucking hot it was out there?”

“Are you really asking me what I was thinking?” Richie asks.

“Well I _hoped_ that you at least spared a thought for your fucking health, for once. Jesus, Richie. You’re going to give me high blood pressure and then I will really fucking die. And I’m only 22 you idiot.”

“Yeah, well, you’re gonna need to recalibrate your expectations of me, Eds. I think you’ve set the bar too high.”

“I can’t set it any lower if I tried.”

“What can I say? I’ve been breaking expectations and disappointing people since the day my father’s sperm wiggled its way into my mother’s egg.”

“What the fuck.” Eddie says, forgetting about Richie’s sunburn and smacking his back again.

“Ouch! Jesus fuck, Eds. That fucking hurts!”

“Oops,” Eddie says, sounding genuinely sorry, “I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”

“‘Did that hurt’? Oh, well. No, it did not. I can’t understand why hitting someone with the biggest sunburn of their life, _on their sunburn_ of all places, would hurt.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, “I’m going to apply the gel now, okay?” and adds in a smaller voice, “Let me know if it hurts.”

It doesn’t hurt at all, because of how gentle Eddie’s touch is. Richie is pretty sure at least a part of that is thanks to how soft Eddie’s fingertips are, but another part of him marvels at how carefully Eddie was touching him. Like he was a damaged Renaissance era painting that was being restored, like a mother holding her baby for the first time.

It gets awkward when Eddie moves to Richie’s front. Richie shivers when Eddie gently dabs at his skin, the cooling sensation a direct contrast against the burn raging under his skin. Eddie remains steadfast and focused in his actions, gently applying a layer of gel to the wounded skin. If he notices the way that Richie’s nipples hardened when he moved around the surrounding area, he doesn’t comment on it.

When he’s done, he takes a step back.

“Thank you.” Richie says. The gel was working wonders: he feels less agitated than he’d felt when he barged into Eddie’s room. And even if the gel was shit, just the thought that Eddie had tended to his burn so gently was enough to make him feel better.

Eddie gives him a level look, “You are such an idiot. Have I said that yet?”

“Only for the millionth time.”

“Millionth time? No wonder it hasn’t gotten through your thick skull yet.” Eddie says, unfolding his arms with a fond look in his eyes. He straightens his back to ruffle Richie’s hair playfully. “You’re such an idiot, Richie. A big fucking idiot.”

“Eddie?”

“What?”

“I think my scalp’s burnt too.”

“What?” Eddie says, alarmed. Richie bends down low enough for Eddie to inspect his head, hand gently threading through Richie’s messy curls. “What the fuck, it’s sunburnt too. I can’t really do anything about this, though. I’m not gonna put aloe vera on your head. You’re gonna have to let this one flake out.”

“Alright. If that’s doctor K.’s recommendation, I have no choice but to listen to it.”

“Told you that dumbass disease is lethal.”

“Mayhaps, young child.” Richie says in a British accent, stroking his chin in fake thought, “Mayhaps.”

“Shut up, idiot. Your Voices still suck and it’s not gonna make me forget about how you were laughing at me for putting sunblock.”

“You weren’t putting sunblock, Eddie. You were slathering it on like butter cream frosting on cake or something.”

“And look who ended up regretting their decision.” Eddie says, folding his arms, “Hint: it isn’t me.”

“Touche.” Richie says, giving his chin another lazy stroke, “Will you help me to apply this gel again tomorrow?”

“Are you still going to be sunburnt tomorrow?”

Richie looks all over his deep-red but now sticky skin, giving Eddie a dry look. “Yes?”

Eddie sighs resignedly, looking to the ceiling. “Then I guess that I don’t really have a choice, do I? I can’t leave you to it— you'll just never apply the gel at all.”

“Sounds about right, Eds.” Richie grins, earning a glare from Eddie.

“It isn’t something to be proud of, dummy. And stop calling me Eds. I’ve said it like a thousand times by now, idiot.”

“Only a thousand? That’s even less than the number of times that you’ve been calling me an idiot. Looks like you don’t actually hate it that much.”

Richie already knows that, from the way Eddie inhales deeply and straightens his hand by his face, that he’s going to launch into another one of his rants. It’s okay, though. Richie doesn’t mind. He finds it endearing how much Eddie has to say about everything he talks about. On some level, he likes to watch the way that Eddie tries to win every argument that they have. It’s cute.

So although Richie ends up conceding on the sunblock, he still puts a layer that’s too thin to fully protect him from future burns. He spends the rest of the summer alternating between hissing in pain when his skin begins peeling, sighing softly when Eddie’s gentle fingers dab around the flaking skin, and rolling about in the barrens. And even though Eddie gives him so much shit for it every time he’s rubbing the cooling gel onto Richie’s skin, he knows that Eddie doesn’t mind _that_ much either. If Eddie did, Richie would be left to do it himself.

He doesn’t get a chance to do it himself the entire summer, though. Eddie’s always there with a scowl on his face but laser sharp focus when he’s helping Richie. It’s nice to know that they’re close enough to do this now. He likes knowing that the walls between them are coming down slowly, even if they’re not always noticeable at first.

It’s another few weeks later when Richie notices it again— when Eddie begins to offer stories about his life, instead of Richie coaxing him to do it.

Richie is lying on the edge of his bed with his head hanging off the side, next to Eddie’s shoulders. The shirt that he was wearing had ridden up his torso, revealing a pale expanse of skin to anyone who wanted to see it. Eddie had walked into his room, given him a disinterested glance and then planted himself on the floor next to Richie, taking out his Switch to play some games while Richie looked over his shoulders, watching everything from toppled lenses. Richie would offer some advice to Eddie on when to swing left and hit the werewolf monster on the screen, or unwanted commentary on his Animal Crossing farm, and it was often met either with Eddie telling Richie to shut the fuck up or taking his advice quietly.

Whenever Richie’s glasses started to slide precariously off the bridge of his nose, he would push it up. Sometimes, Eddie noticed it first and pushed it up for him.

Autumn was beginning to bow out. Red, yellow and brown leaves danced all over the barrens. Days started to get shorter, creeping in at first and when it was bold enough, it began to throw the sky into a dark canvas of white splatters earlier and earlier.

Richie watched all of this distantly, aware that this world was still dreamspace. Aware that behind his room door lay more doors propped up by nothingness, a vast sea of white with no horizon line in sight. Aware that below the window on the streets there would be no traffic. Aware that there would be no Bev to barge into his room at the most inopportune moments, no Ben that he could goad into watching bad romance comedies with, no Stan he could make fun of with bird jokes.

His glasses were sliding down again. Before they reached the tip of his nose, Eddie brought his hand up, a finger pushing his glasses up with practiced ease.

“Where are you at now?” Eddie asks. His eyes are still on the animation playing on the small screen between his hands. This was a question that they asked each other enough to understand what it meant.

Richie hums in thought. “I’m in this room.”

Eddie nods, pressing furiously on two buttons. “Are you here or there?”

“There.” Richie admits, looking at Jeff. Jeff was the one thing that Eddie didn’t ask Richie to clean off. The floor was visible now and his desk had proper space to work on, and in exchange Jeff stayed.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Richie lets a few seconds slip by before he makes a sound of affirmation in his throat.

Immediately, but not hurriedly, Eddie presses pause on his game and puts the Switch aside, twisting his body sideways. He rests an arm on Richie’s shoulder and leans his cheek on it so that he is able to get a clear look at Richie’s face, unobstructed by stray curls that fall between them. His eyes are focused, patiently waiting for Richie to reach out. “Tell me about it.”

Richie’s eyes hold Eddie’s gaze for a long second before he looks back at Jeff. “I’m thinking about Bev and Ben and Stan today.” he says. There are no feelings in his words. They are sterile and unsettling for the intimacy that his thoughts demanded. But he isn’t sure how to convey the desire to see their faces again, to hear their voices and know that they were around. Is there a way to put that into your words? To make the other person understand the depth of your feelings?

Perhaps, Richie thinks, people speak detachly about the things that matters most to them. It’s not possible for such emotions to be understood fully by other people.

“I miss them.” Richie concludes.

Eddie’s fingers find their way into Richie’s hair, slowly combing through the tangles gently. Sometimes, the soft pads of Eddie’s fingers will land on Richie’s forehead, his neck or his jaw. Richie closes his eyes and revels in the feeling, in the waves it sends through his body.

“Tell me about them,” Eddie encourages.

Richie breathes in, opening his eyes slowly. Jeff came into view in twos, colliding into a single spot on the ceiling.

“Stan’s my best friend.” Richie starts, “We met when I transferred to Derry. I was assigned the seat behind him in English period. Once in a while he would turn around to glare at me when I started to get really noisy in class. Like, _only_ to glare at me. Without saying anything. And then I’d shut up for the next few minutes because I was honestly scared to make him angry at me. I used to think that he hated me, but then one day after school I got beaten up real badly by Bowers and his cronies.

“I’ve had many run-ins with them but that was quite a bad one. They broke my nose and broke my specs too. Stan happened to walk by when I was hiding behind the school with my nose all fucked up, blood pouring down like a horror film. He took a look at me with that impassive face of his and sighed the loudest goddamn sigh I ever heard as a kid. If I wasn’t busy bleeding out from my face, I would’ve made a joke about it. I think I had a joke then, but it’s kinda hard to talk clearly when blood is dripping back into your mouth.

“So he kneeled down next to me and told me with a straight face that he was gonna set my nose straight. I asked if he’d ever done it before, and he said no. That was the most insane and scary thing I’d ever heard then, but also the most badass shit ever. A guy with no experience in setting people’s broken as shit noses, telling someone that he was gonna do it? I was sold. Totally. I had to trust him. And honestly, I think that was when we became friends.”

Eddie’s looks at Richie’s nose and his hands flitter around, as if undecided if he wants to touch Richie’s crooked nose or not. Richie finds that endearing.

“Yeah, it’s not straight. I know. But it is what it is.”

“It’s not that noticeable.” Eddie says.

“Yeah, but you can’t unsee it now that you’ve seen it, right?”

“I wouldn’t want to unsee it, anyway.” Eddie says under his breath.

Richie hesitates. There are moments like these when Eddie says such words that makes Richie wonder what Eddie is thinking about. These are the moments where Richie would love to peek into Eddie’s head, because he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react to such words.

“Yeah, well,” Richie says stiffly, scratching his belly with a hand, “I guess it’s just something I always notice first when I see myself in the mirror. And I remember that day. Running away from Bowers and his stupid bully friends.”

“I think it’s cute.” Eddie says.

Richie feels his eyes widen minutely, his jaw goes slack, but his heart is hammering away at his ribcage. A loud, steady _lub-dub, lub-dub_ rhythms thumps in his ears. He can’t see his face but he can feel it getting hotter and hotter. Richie hopes he isn’t blushing because that’ll be really embarrassing.

Richie struggles to open his mouth and say something. What? _Thank you? You think it’s cute? Do you really?_ but Eddie beats him to it.

“I’m just saying that you don’t need to worry that it makes you look uglier or anything. It doesn’t.”

“Uglier? Wow. You think I’m ugly, Eds?”

“You’re going to keep being ugly in my books for as long as you keep calling me that.” Eddie looks away, muttering a firm, “Idiot.”

Richie smiles at the back of Eddie’s head.

“Am I at least number one then?”

“Why’d you want to be number one on my list of ugly?”

“Cause at least I’d be number one on your list of something.” Richie says, “Obviously.”

Eddie’s face goes soft, taken by surprise by the sincerity of Richie’s words. It’s not the first time that Richie’s said this, but it’s different this time than the last time he said it. Back then they were both still strangers, and words meant nothing to each other. But now, it’s a bit different. Things are taken with more meaning now because of their close friendship, and even if they are still careless thoughts that worm their way out of Richie’s mouth, they still carry more weight than they did many months ago.

Eddie looks away. His cheeks slowly colour with red.

“You’re so stupid, you know that?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Anyway, Bowers is a really crazy person. He’s dangerous as hell. That’s why Mike’s family had to get a restraining order from the Bowers’ family.”

“Mike?” Richie says, “Who’s Mike?”

Eddie glances up, “Mike Hanlon? He lives in Derry too.”

Richie’s brows draw together as he adjusts his glasses, trying to recall a Mike Hanlon in Derry. If there was one, Richie must not have met him, which is strange because Richie knows everyone who went to Derry High. Everyone knows everyone in a town this small.

“He was homeschooled until college,” Eddie says after a beat, sensing Richie’s confusion. “But being homeschooled didn’t save him from being beaten up by Bowers. Mike’s family owns the farm next to Bowers.”

“Oh, fuck! The Hanlons! Right, now I remember them. Mike Hanlon. Huh, I haven’t really— don’t remember hearing that name much, actually. Don’t even remember what he looks like.”

“Yeah, well. His parents were quite protective of him too. I don’t blame them— Derry’s not really the most inclusive place to be.”

“Why’d they get a restraining order against Bowers anyway? I mean, good on them, but I’m curious what the story is.”

“That asshole killed Mike’s dog.”

“What the fuck?” Richie says, reeling back. Eddie grimaces.

“Yeah, Bowers admitted to it while he was beating Mike up one day. Mike told me that he was like, 11 years old at the time. It was terrible.”

Richie clenches his fist, “Fuck Bowers. And fuck his asshole friends. Hell has a special place reserved for people like them.”

“Yeah.” Eddie looks down with his mouth set in a hard line, “Anyway, I met Mike in Maine community college. I’d only just moved back to Derry but.. fucking Bowers remembered me. It— yeah. I sprained my ankle trying to run from him back then and ran into Mike in the barrens. He helped me out of there. If Bowers had found me…” Eddie looks away, working the muscles in his jaw, “I don’t know what would have happened to me, honestly.”

“Shit, Eddie. I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve been there to help you.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie says, “Bowers is a dangerous man with a dangerous rage. I wouldn’t want anyone to risk themselves trying to help me. Mike’s different. He’s been a victim of Bowers for such a long time but he’s always looking out for other people, you know? He’s so brave. I always admired his heart. I’ve always wanted to be brave like he is.”

“But Eddie.. you’re so fucking brave. Having to deal with Bowers is something that still frightens me. I literally almost shit my pants one time when he was chasing me through the Aladdin theatre. Having to deal with a grown up version of him? Fucking horror movie material.”

“I’m not.. brave.” Eddie says. “I’m still scared of Bowers. I’m still scared of—” Eddie pauses. “I’m still scared of a lot of things, Richie. I’m not brave.”

“Eddie, being brave doesn’t mean that you’re not scared of things. If there’s someone who isn’t scared of anything then I don’t know what the fuck that person is. Even Superman has his own fears, okay? Being brave.. it’s in spite of your fears. You’re really brave, Eds. The things you’ve been through, living your best life in spite of all your allergies and shit.. That shit’s amazing.”

Eddie blushes, “You’re so sappy. It’s just exaggerating things anyway. But.. you remind me of Mike when you talk like this. He’s a really nice friend. I wish that you could’ve met him. I think you’d get along with him. He’s the one who introduced me to the joys of baking. My mom never allowed me to bake or cook much at home. She was always afraid that I’d end up slicing off a finger or burning myself. Mike let me cook in his house, he taught me how to make my own recipes.”

Richie doesn’t want to spoil the moment, because it’s so rare that Eddie’s opening up about his life like this, but there’s something twisting in his chest when Eddie smiles at the thought of Mike, when Eddie talks about Mike with so much pride and affection. It’s weird. He’s never felt like this when Bev started talking about Ben during their late night heart-to-heart talks, and he definitely never felt this way when Stan mentioned his soulmate dream to Bev and him.

Feeling threatened by a complete stranger.. over a friend. It’s weird. Richie doesn’t know what it is, but he doesn’t like it.

He swallows thickly.

“Aww, somebody’s got a crush,” Richie sing-songs. His heart feels heavier than usual. Eddie shoots Richie a dirty look.

“Shut the fuck up. We’re friends. But anyone would be lucky to have Mike. He’s a total catch.”

Richie doesn’t want to know what’s between the lines, but he needs to. There’s an itch at the back of his head that won’t allow him not to ask.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Would you like to date him?”

Eddie’s glare fades away into a mix of surprise and bemusement. He blinks once before saying, “No. I don’t want to date him. He’s a nice friend— one of my best friends, actually— but I wouldn’t want to date him. That’s just strange to think about.”

The misplaced tension in Richie’s chest seeps out like a deflating balloon. He feels lighter, _relieved_ to hear it, for reasons that he can’t explain.

But one thing he realises is that Eddie’s reason for not wanting to date Mike is because they’re just friends. He isn’t interested in _Mike_. Not because he isn’t interested in men.

Richie takes another gulp of air and shoves the thought aside. He doesn’t even know why he thought that was important to know anyway. Eddie’s sexuality isn’t important to him. Eddie’s still going to be Eddie no matter what he identified as. Eddie is Eddie— it’s as simple as that.

And Eddie isn’t interested in _Mike_ , his traitorous brain reminds him.

“What about you?” Eddie asks back after they’ve fallen into a lull.

“What about me?”

Eddie smiles without meaning it— it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Do you have anyone you’re interested in?”

“No.” Richie says. It feels like a lie, but he doesn’t understand why. He isn’t.

Eddie doesn’t look satisfied with his answer either, if the way that he’s side-glancing at Richie is of any indication. But at least Eddie doesn’t call Richie on it, because Richie can’t give him an answer either.

They end up falling into another period of quiet, with Richie looking at his ceiling while Eddie stares off into space with his fingers still threading through Richie’s hair. It’s nice to be able to sit in silence with someone, Richie realises. It’s an understated measure of trust.

Staring at fake Jeff, Richie says, “Hey, Eddie?”

“Mm?”

“Do you remember what you said last week? About my Smiths poster?”

Eddie tilts his head contemplatively, “What about it?”

“Do you really like it?”

“Well, obviously. Why would I lie about that?”

“Don’t know, just wondering.”

“What?”

“Do you want to put it in your room?”

Eddie’s hand goes still in Richie’s hair, his face wiped of any emotion. It takes a few seconds before Eddie resumes combing through Richie’s hair. “It’ll collect dust.”

“What if you put it up on the ceiling?” Richie suggests, pointing at Jeff, “You could have a Jeff-like thing in your room.”

“I don’t want mold in my room, Richie.”

Richie gasps in mock-offence, “Rude. His name is Jeff, okay, Eds? And anyway, I wasn’t suggesting that you grow mold in your room. I’m not gonna share Jeff’s children with you. I was suggesting putting a poster on your ceiling. You could have a friend.”

“I already have you.” Eddie snorts.

“Yeah, but you could have _another_ friend. Like an imaginary friend.”

“Aren’t we too old for that?”

“You’re only too old for something if you think that you are.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It’ll still collect dust, Rich.”

“Okay, but if you put it on your ceiling, and if gravity works, then how will it collect dust? I mean, dust will fall down, right? And if it’s on your ceiling, it won’t collect dust. Right?”

“I don’t know if it works like that.”

“Why not? It sounds totally legit to me.”

“Yeah, but your sense of logic is warped.” Eddie replies easily, and after a brief moment of hesitation, he says, “But okay, let’s do it.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s put the poster in my room.”

Richie pushes himself off his bed, tumbling onto the floor next to Eddie in a heap. He’s still scrambling up, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose when he asks, “Wait, really?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the dust?”

Eddie knocks a fist lightly against Richie’s temple, “Weren’t you just giving me a very convincing argument about gravity and dust?”

“Very convincing,” Richie agrees, slightly breathless.

Together, they peel the Smiths poster off from Richie’s wall and go to Eddie’s room to paste it on his ceiling. Because Richie is the only one tall enough to reach the ceiling when they’re standing on Eddie’s bed, Richie ends up being the one holding the poster, waiting for Eddie to give him the green light.

“To the left.” Eddie says, waving his hand leftward. Richie shuffles to the left, trying to hold the poster spread apart. “No, no. You’re too left now. You need to step back a bit.”

Richie takes a step right.

“Wait, it’s off centre now. Come back in front.”

“Holy shit, Eds, my arms are killing me. Can you _please_ choose a place to paste this thing already?”

“That’s because you refuse to eat your veggies, Richie. I swear, if you ate all the veg I cooked for you, you wouldn’t be complaining this much.”

“I don’t think this is a nutritional problem.”

“How is it not? It clearly is.”

“Veggie gives you fibre and fibre is not the issue at hand. I’m not sitting on the crapper waiting for a piece of shit that won’t come out.”

“Oh my god, Richie. That is so disgusting. Wait, now you’ve moved back too much. You need to—”

Fuck it. Richie presses the blu tack into the ceiling, pasting the poster shortly after, happily ignoring Eddie’s petulant protests.

“There. It’s done.” Richie says happily. He jumps off Eddie’s bed and dusts his hands against each other, beaming proudly at the obviously crooked poster on the ceiling.

“It’s fucking crooked.”

“So adjust it yourself then.”

“I hate you.”

It’s probably this incident of Richie taking advantage of their height difference that pissed Eddie off enough to start adjusting everything else to his convenience later on. Richie first notices it exactly a week later when Richie strolls into their new mini mart— a door that Eddie created next to their kitchen.

“What the dick is this?” Richie says, throwing his arms wide open as he walks down the aisle to where Eddie is standing with a hand on his chin, staring at cereal boxes.

The room isn’t large. It’s actually the kind of corner store that sells only a few types of bread, sodas and chips. But the one that Eddie’s built is just slightly longer, enough to fit 3 shelves stacked with an assortment of canned food and snacks, with fresh produce sitting prettily in baskets lined near the window.

And one very obvious difference between this place and the regular corner store is how clean it is. It’s brightly lit by warm colours and the place is as clean as Eddie’s room is. There’s not a single wrapper or stray receipt flying about on the floor— which makes sense since Richie doesn’t think that there’s any sense in paying for food when there’s no cashier in this room. Then again, there’s no sense in paying for food in _dreamspace_.

“Oh, hi, Richie. Didn’t see you there.” Eddie says, giving Richie only a brief look before going back to.. whatever the fuck he was doing a second ago. Staring at cereal boxes, apparently.

“You built a mini mart?” Richie asks, “You know, this actually looks really familiar. It looks kind of like the one—”

“Next to the Aladdin theatre.” Eddie finishes with a confident smile, “Yep, that’s the one.”

“Wow. Are we really going to recreate Derry in dreamspace or something?”

“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who started it with the barrens.”

“Actually, it’s your room, Eddie. At least my room belongs in New York.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says with a roll of his eyes.

“Besides, I think your memory of this place kinda sucks. That place wasn’t even this clean.”

“I’m not gonna make this place dirty just because it was dirty in Derry.”

“And also, the shelves are all wrong, dude.”

Eddie pauses, eyes darting between Richie and the shelf in front of him. “What do you mean?”

“It’s obviously not this short.” Richie says, resting an arm against the metal shelf, “Look, when I was in Derry, this shit went to my eye. And this?” Richie’s index finger bounces between his eyes and the top shelf, “Is not eye level.”

“Yeah, because there’s no need for it to be that tall. I’m not gonna use a fucking stool to reach the shit up there, Richie.”

“Aww, do you have to do that in real life? That’s—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“So cute, Spaghetti. I can totally imagine it happening: you jumping on the spot, trying to reach that box of wheat cereal or oats or whatever bland shit healthy people eat—”

“Don’t call me that— it’s actually worse than Eds. And it’s not _bland shit_ , Richie. Oats can actually be really tasty if you know how to make them right—”

“And you _still_ can’t reach the top shelf until a tall handsome hunk like me comes around and stands next to you and reaches for it easily and—”

“Fuck you, Tozier. That’s basically the start of a bad porno or something. That shit doesn’t ever happen in real life.”

“Glad to get your expert opinion on that,” Richie says.

“You are such an ass.” Eddie deadpans, “You’re probably one of those people who come into a store just to play hide and seek or something.”

“You’re not wrong, I once ran into Freese’s department store just to lose Bowers and his fuckers.”

Eddie blinks in surprise, “Did it work?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes as he turns back to scrutinising his cereal boxes. “Richie, a lot of bad shit can happen to you and you can still be here.”

“That’s not true cause I probably won’t be here if I’m dead. And the fact that I’m alive means that Bowers never found me that day.”

Eddie considers it for a brief moment, “What did you even do to him anyway? Why does he always want to beat you up?”

Immediately, a memory flashes through Richie’s head.

_“Fucking cock—”_

“Don’t know,” Richie shrugs indifferently, “He just wants to beat me up all the time. Maybe there’s something on my face that makes him want to break my nose every time he sees me.”

“That’s not funny.”

Richie shrugs again, “It’s not. It is what it is. Hey, but you know what’s funny? When I outran him inside this mini mart. Actually, I didn’t outrun him, but I out-trolleyed him.”

“You did _what_ with him?”

“Don’t say it like that. You make it sound like I hooked up with him.” Richie nudges Eddie with an elbow, “I out-trolleyed him.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“I managed to outrun him with the trolleys, duh. It’s not rocket science.” Richie snickers. When Eddie’s baffled expression doesn’t budge, Richie’s face falls. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Am I supposed to?”

“Yes?” Richie says it like a question, “Have you never tried skating around here using their trolleys before?”

“No? What? Is it a rite of passage or something?”

“Yes!” Richie groans, “Oh my god, you’ve been missing out on so much. Hold on— let me just get us a trolley.”

Richie closes his eyes and tries his best to remember the kind of trolleys he used to play with inside here, with Bev standing on the front of it while Stan walked alongside. The rusted wheels that don’t always turn as smoothly as they once did. The peeling plastic cover on the handles, the foldable baby seat inside that Richie always puts his bag on.

When he opens his eyes again, the same trolley stands in front of them. It’s battered and bruised in every way that he remembers it being, and it tugs on a string in Richie’s heart that reminds him that not everything about Derry was bad.

“Wow,” Eddie breathes, raising his brows, “You just _had_ to go and recreate the oldest looking trolley that you’ve ever seen, huh. It’s gonna break if you even step on it, you know.”

“It’s all in the authenticity,” Richie says, stepping on the lower grail of it experimentally. Eddie’s right (although Richie will not admit it)— Richie isn’t sure if his weight would cause the trolley to collapse. After a few seconds of leaning his weight on it, the trolley still stands reliably. Richie beams at the trolley, giving it a little pat before smiling at Eddie. “Come on, Eds. You’ve gotta try it.”

“Richie,” Eddie sighs, rubbing his eye tiredly, “There’s no way that the both of us are gonna fit. Just you standing there takes up all the space behind.”

“Then get in.” Richie nods into the trolley.

“There’s no fucking way I can fit inside there, Richie. I’m not that small.”

“Sure you can. Even if you’re ‘not that small’—”

“Quit airquoting me, for gods sake—”

“There are many ways to fit something that’s ‘not that small’ into small spaces.” Richie says, winking obscenely with both eyes in quick succession.

“That’s so not funny.” Eddie says, “And there’s no way I’m getting into that thing— it’s a death trap.” he shakes his head, pressing his lips together tightly, “I’m never gonna get out even if I manage to fit in there somehow.”

“I’m kidding, Eds. Relax. I mean, I have no doubt about you being able to fit inside. But you can always just stand in front and hold onto the rails like it’s Titanic 2.0. I’ll be Jack and you’ll be Rose.”

“ _You_ want to be Jack?” Eddie snorts, going around the front and stepping on the lower grails anyway. “No fucking way. Jack was a gentleman. You’re the exact antithesis of Jack.”

“And what’s that? Dashingly good looking? A heartbreaker?”

“Loud, obnoxious,” Eddie says, gripping onto the metal railings of the trolley when Richie begins pushing slowly, “You’d probably push me off the door in the sea or something.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Jack was a fucking dumbass— that door could totally fit 2 people if they found the right balance. I’d find the right balance with you.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’d put you on my lap or something.”

“Fuck you.” Eddie says, blushing immediately. He turns away to look over his shoulder, completely turning his face away from Richie’s view. “And can you get any slower? Go faster, Richie.”

“Ooh, that’s what your mom said to me last night. Been eavesdropping haven’t you?” Richie walks faster, though, taking bigger strides that make the air around them whoosh by like a cooling air drift. With his face still turned away, Eddie’s cheeks begin rounding upwards in a smile that Richie wishes he could see.

“Shut up. Is this how you talk to girls? I’m surprised if you ever got a girlfriend with what comes out of that mouth of yours.”

All the humour drains out of Richie immediately, as if someone had pulled the plug.

His pace slows as he maneuvers the trolley around the corner, turning sharply but with the ease of an expert who’s done this many times. Eddie laughs in excitement, throwing his head back as stray hairs flutter around his face, framing it against the sunlight pouring in from behind his head.

“Yeah,” Richie laughs mirthlessly, “That’s how I talk to all the girls.”

Eddie’s too caught up in the fun of clinging onto the small, rusted trolley to notice the lack of real emotions in Richie’s voice. To notice the way that his face freezes up in a poor imitation of his usual smug look, to notice the way that his shoulders have squared up once again while he picks up speed with the trolley that has more to do with trying to disperse the nervous energy in his body.

Because this _isn’t_ how Richie talks to all the girls. He doesn’t really talk to girls. Girls are fine. They’re fun and they’re pretty and they’re smart and they’re interesting. Richie doesn’t have beef with them.

But he doesn’t like them the way that his parents think he does.

He doesn’t like them the way that _Eddie_ thinks he does.

Because Richie is gay, and Eddie doesn’t know.

It’s been fine for most of the time that they’ve spent in dreamspace though. There’s never been a problem with his sexuality that’s resulted in any conflict between Eddie and him. There’s never been a need to be open with his sexuality. It’s not Eddie’s business, and it’s not harming anyone to keep it a secret.

But it’s getting weird now, to keep joking about flirting with girls and wanting to date girls and do things with them that he’d rather do with _men_. It’s getting weird to keep lying to Eddie about having a non-existent interest in girls. It’s true that he’d been with girls before, back before he accepted who he was. Back when he was trying to convince himself that he was normal, that he enjoyed touching girls the way that his classmates bragged about, that he wanted to settle down with a woman (who would have been his soulmate) in the American white-picket fence dream and start a family with 2 children in his thirties.

But it isn’t true anymore. Richie isn’t the same 16 year old boy who tried to run away from his sexuality in a town like Derry, where homophobic assaults had been widespread. He’s a 23 year old man who’s long accepted his sexuality, had come to terms with it and started dating around while waiting for his soulmate dream to come.

He’s no longer hiding in the closet. He has an entire support system now: Bev, Stan and even Ben. Even if his parents don’t know about it yet, Richie has long moved on from the point in his life where he thought that he was abnormal.

And if his soulmate (most likely) couldn’t accept that— then maybe they aren’t even soulmates to begin with.

It’s another few weeks of debating with himself before Richie decides to tell Eddie, though. The fear of being avoided by _Eddie_ strikes so much fear in Richie that the words always die on the tip of his tongue, especially when Eddie looks straight into his eyes with a patient smile that turns teasing later when Richie doesn’t say anything.

So Richie decides to do it when he can’t see Eddie’s eyes. In hindsight, it was probably one of the worst times to tell Eddie that he’s gay because they’re always saying outrageous shit to each other during Mario Kart, trying to get the other person to fumble and overtake the first place.

But Richie’s mouth doesn’t have much of a filter anyway, and the daunting task becomes monumentally easier when they’re not making eye contact with each other.

“Hey, um, Eds.”

“Mmm.” Eddie says, eyes glued to the screen. They’re sitting on Richie’s bed, playing Mario Kart on the Switch connected to the screen on his desk. It’s a comfortable distance that Eddie doesn’t complain about worsening eyesight or anything, and it’s nice because they can always stretch their legs in the space between the desk and the bed. The window is cracked open slightly to allow some of the fresh spring air into the room, but not so much that it triggers Eddie’s allergies.

“I, um..” Richie’s heart is pounding so heart he thinks it’s going to crack his ribcage.

“What? Do you need to pee? Because I am not pausing the game for your toilet break when I told you to go earlier. You should’ve just taken the advice and went to pee or something.”

“No,” Richie says blankly, eyes tracking his Toad which is staying just a hairline ahead of Eddie’s Peach, “Eds—”

“That’s not my name.”

Ignoring Eddie’s token protest, Richie says in a tight voice, “Eddie, I’m gay.”

“Haha, nice try, dickwad. But I’m not falling for it this time.” Eddie rolls his eyes, shaking his head with a crooked smile on his face.

Richie doesn’t know what else to say. Truthfully, he doesn’t know if he can say anything else without choking up. His heart has jumped up from his chest and lodged itself in his throat, and his ribcage is contracting so quickly his insides feel like it’s being squeezed into mush. So he keeps silent and sucks his lips into his mouth instead, hoping for Eddie to change the topic and move on from there.

But because Eddie is Eddie, his (most likely) soulmate, Eddie notices his reticence.

Eddie glances sideways at Richie, smile falling off his face. “Richie?”

Richie tries to make a sound in acknowledgement, but what comes out is a miserable noise too high for him to pass it off as anything else but the kind of sound you make when you’re on the verge of tears. Eddie hits pause and tosses the controller aside quickly, turning around to hold Richie’s shoulders with both hands. Richie looks up, lips quivering in some semblance of a smile.

“Oh my god, Richie,” Eddie gasps, pulling Richie in for a hug, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were being serious about it.”

Richie shakes his head. He doesn’t want to cry, but something about the way that Eddie’s fingers comb through his hair breaks that dam in him.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, Richie. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. I thought you were trying to distract me.” there’s a quick pause, “Fuck, I’m messing up my apology now, aren’t I?”

Richie lifts his head up to laugh wetly. “Not really.”

“I think I am. I’m not supposed to—” Eddie sighs, his fingers halting momentarily before resuming it’s slow motions through Richie’s curls, “I’m sorry, Richie. I’m such a jackass, honestly.”

“Sometimes, yeah.” Richie sniffles, “I’m gay, Eddie. I’m really, really gay. And not gay in the— happy, sense.” he takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes. He’s said this to himself in the mirror so many times before, he’s said this to Bev and to Stan and then to Ben once when it was late at night and Ben kept him company when his insomnia had been especially bad for a few weeks. “I like men, Eddie.”

“Well, yeah. Last I checked, that’s what being gay means.” Eddie says lightheartedly. Richie laughs weakly.

“Shut up. I’m being serious here. You’re not going to see this side of me again until, like, 50 years later or something.

“I know that you’re being serious.” Eddie pulls away gently, resting his hand on the base of Richie’s neck. “Thank you for trusting me with this, Richie.”

“You’re not.. You’re not—”

“Nothing’s going to change between us, Richie. Swear it.” Eddie says, drawing a cross over his heart with one hand. “This doesn’t change my opinion of you. Like, at all. You’re still Richie Tozier, the stupid guy who decided not to put sunblock and ended up becoming more burnt than the toast you make.”

Richie feels his eyes start to prickle with a fresh wave of tears all over again, “That’s how you’re supposed to eat toast, stupid. The toast you make can’t even be called toast.”

“Your toast is literally a few seconds away from disintegrating in the toaster. That stuff’s carcinogenic.”

“Everything’s carcinogenic to you. Even the sun is carcinogenic to you.”

“No, but the sun will be carcinogenic to _you_ if you don’t start applying some fucking sunblock the next time you decide to cook your own skin in the barrens.”

Richie laughs again, because somehow, Eddie is always coming back to the topic of his sunburn. And okay, maybe that’s fair, considering how many times Richie stupidly refused to slather sunblock on adequately.

“But, hey, guess what?” Richie says, sniffling again but he’s smiling from ear to ear.

Eddie raises a brow, interested but ready to be disappointed. “What?”

“You were right. I’ve never got myself a girlfriend with this trashy mouth of mine.”

Eddie groans, “Richie, that’s not funny.”

“It’s my sexuality. I’m allowed to make jokes about myself.”

“Idiot.” Eddie shoves Richie, “And besides, I mean..” Eddie’s face pinches, voice going strangely blank, “Surely you’ve had some guys who’re interested in you.”

“Come on,” Richie laughs wryly, looking down while removing his glasses to wipe them with the hem of his shirt, “Who’d want to date me? I’m just.. Richie Tozier.”

Eddie’s quiet for a second that feels like an hour to Richie. “That’s not true. I mean, don’t you have some charming, irresistible charm? And how about your undeniable handsomeness?”

“Eddie,” Richie says quietly, still unable to look up, “You know that I was just joking. They’re not— I was just making a joke about myself, that’s all. We both know that they’re not true.”

“That’s what you think.” Eddie says back, just as quietly.

It’s not the volume that makes Richie startle, but what Eddie says. Because this is Eddie, who’s always shot down everything that Richie says. Because this is Eddie, who’s never as forthcoming about his personal opinions and views as Richie is. Because this is Eddie, usually so private with his feelings, peeling a piece of himself that he’s hidden so far inside that Richie never realised it was ever there.

Richie’s head jerks up, and even without his glasses, Richie can see the faint outline of a weak smile on Eddie’s lips. He looks every bit as hesitant as Richie must have looked minutes ago.

“What?” Richie says, barely above a whisper.

“Who wouldn’t want to date you?” Eddie says softly, “You’re funny, you’re easy going, you’re patient.. Even if you’re not like, Chris Hemsworth, you’re— You’re a sight for sore eyes. Sometimes. You’re.. Richie, you’re—” Eddie looks away sharply. There’s a pregnant pause between them, the air grows heavy with the anticipation of Eddie’s words. “You’re a great guy, Richie. And.. whoever dates you will be the happiest person in the world, Richie. They’ll be so fucking lucky to be yours, and to have you.”

Richie’s mouth falls open, although he has nothing to say.

His heart is going to explode. His face is already feeling too hot.

Eddie glances back. “You don’t have to—”

“Do you mean that?” Richie asks quickly, “What you just said.”

Eddie’s brows furrow together, “Well.. yeah? I mean— I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

The tears in Richie’s eyes begin to overflow, spilling at the sides. He begins dissolving into sobs after a very loud hiccup interrupts the silence of the room, shoulders shaking and hands wiping at his eyes furiously. Eddie draws back in alarm, hands hovering around Richie’s face like he isn’t sure what to do.

“Oh my god, why are you crying?”

“Because—” Richie sniffs violently, “Because I’m fucking touched and happy, damn it.”

“I have seen happy crying, Richie, and this is not it.” Eddie says, guiding Richie’s very wet hands away so that he can dry Richie’s eyes himself.

“Yeah, well,” Richie says between sobs, “This is just my fucking face, okay? I always cry like this. If you have a problem, take it up with my parents. They’re the ones who created this face.”

“Jesus christ. How are you so fucking annoying even when you’re crying like this?”

“It is a gift,” Richie chuckles tearily. His vision is even more blurred with some unshed tears loitering around, but he can still see Eddie’s familiar eye roll.

“Do you want a tissue? I can go and get us some tissues.” Eddie offers gently, ghosting his thumb down the crooked line of Richie’s nose. Richie shakes his head slowly.

“Can I..” he begins, “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Richie, you can’t just say something and then _not_ say it. I’ll kill you.”

Richie laughs breathily before his face turns serious. “Can I get another hug?”

Eddie’s expression goes blank before it softens, “Of course you can.” he says, pulling Richie down for another hug. Richie allows himself to lean into the crook of Eddie’s neck, closing his eyes and taking in the comforting smell of Eddie’s fabric softener. Eddie hooks his chin onto the sturdy line of Richie’s shoulder, one hand pressed between Richie’s shoulder blades and the other carding through Richie’s hair once again.

His mind goes through all of Eddie’s words again, and he finds that his own thoughts have a mind of their own when they go over a very specific part over and over again.

_And.. whoever dates you will be the happiest person in the world, Richie._

Distantly, he wonders why Eddie would say such a thing. He wonders how Eddie would know how Richie would make his partner feel.

But he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought.

The rest of spring passes by quickly.

For the most part, nothing much changes between Eddie and him— which comes as a big relief to Richie. He’s heard horror stories of people who aren’t as lucky, and he honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do if Eddie were to start avoiding him because of his sexuality. But their dynamic remains largely unchanged: Richie still talks shit that he _knows_ will press on Eddie’s buttons, and Eddie will be quick to throw an even bigger shit back at Richie. It’s the way that they’ve always been and it’s something that Richie really treasures.

But something does change, though: they become even more comfortable with touching each other.

Richie won’t go as far as to say that they get _touchy_ with each other, because that’s a very broad spectrum and Richie doesn’t really know where they stand. On some days, all Eddie wants is to be in the same space as Richie, doing their own things in the comfortable silence afforded to them by nearly 2 years of friendship. On most days, Eddie likes being able to touch Richie, whether it’s just the brushing of their hands or the way that their thighs press against each other’s on the bed. On rare days like today, Eddie wants more than just that.

“Ugh, stop it. You’re going to overturn us!” Richie yells, trying to scramble upright on the hammock that’s rocking violently under the tree in their usual spot at the barrens. Eddie swats at Richie’s arms raised protectively over his head, trying to get a steady foot on the cloth.

“It won’t overturn if you would just _move_.” Eddie grits out, kneeling over Richie in the hammock. He’s gripping both ends to try and slow the swaying, while Richie contributes to the swaying by panicking under Eddie. “Stop moving, oh my god.”

“So do you _want_ me to move or not? Holy shit.”

Eddie grinds his teeth, “You’re such an ass. Didn’t you say that you wanted to go for a swim today, anyway? What the fuck are you still doing in my hammock?”

“Your hammock,” Richie says, making air quotes with his fingers that Eddie slaps away.

“Yeah, dickwad. It’s my hammock, since it was my idea. Remember?”

Begrudgingly, Richie does remember. It was an otherwise unremarkable day when Eddie had brought up the idea of having a hammock here, because _Mike built one for me in Derry, so I thought it would be nice to have one in here too_.

For some reason, the idea that _Mike_ built Eddie a hammock stirred something in Richie’s stomach. It felt a lot like when Richie drank milk from the fridge that had started going bad. So they built a hammock in the barrens as well, because Richie couldn’t get rid of the thought that _Mike_ did something special for Eddie that Richie didn’t.

“Whatever, man. I waited for _ever_ for you to get here. What took you so long?”

“I almost forgot to get the sunblock,” Eddie says, taking off the bag on his back. Richie frowns.

“Where’s your fanny pack?”

Eddie tenses up for a brief moment, looking struck by Richie’s words. Richie’s frown deepens momentarily. “I didn’t feel like wearing it today.”

That’s weird as fuck, because Eddie never goes anywhere without his fanny pack.

“Did you at least bring your inhaler along?”

“Yeah,” Eddie pulls it out of his shorts pocket, waving it next to his weak smile, “Got it.”

Richie nods in approval, “Alright. What’d you bring for me today, Doctor K.?”

“Shut up.” Eddie murmurs, unzipping the bag. He grabs the sunblock and tosses it over to Richie. “Don’t skimp on it, idiot. You’re going to be crying tomorrow if you do.”

“I have literally never once cried in front of you.” Eddie raises a brow. “Because of a sunburn.” Richie adds.

Eddie snorts, rolling his eyes. Richie smiles briefly at Eddie before pulling his shirt over his head, rolling it up in a ball (that he knows Eddie will disapprove of) and throwing it under the hammock when he notices Eddie staring.

“Can I help you?” Richie asks, raising his brows. Eddie looks away sharply, huffing.

“Don’t roll your shirt like that, it’s gonna get wrinkles.”

There it is.

“Eddie, you’re going to get wrinkles faster than my shirt if you keep frowning at me like that.” Richie points out, squeezing an ample amount of lotion on his hand. Eddie flips him off, not bothering with a verbal reply, which makes Richie laugh lightly. He makes quick work of putting on sunblock on his arms, legs and chest, but there’s just this one spot on his back that he isn’t flexible enough to reach.

“Hey, Eds?”

Eddie sighs, partly annoyed and partly exasperated. “What will it take for you to stop calling me Eds?”

“Maybe a little help with the back?”

Eddie pauses, looking surprised. “Seriously?”

“What? Why would I joke about this? I can’t reach my back, dude. My arms have actual bones in them.”

“See? What’s the point of being so fucking tall if you can’t even cover your own back.” Eddie says, taking the bottle of lotion anyways. He crawls across the hammock, sitting between Richie’s legs close enough for Richie to see the freckles across his face, close enough that he can feel heat rolling off Eddie’s body. Eddie’s eyes flicker up under his ridiculously long eyelashes nervously.

When the fuck did Richie even notice Eddie’s _eyelashes_?

“Turn around, asshole. I can’t reach your back if you’re facing me.” Eddie mumbles softly, adam’s apple bobbing nervously. Richie swallows thickly, turning around with his cheeks burning for some reason.

Richie doesn’t know why the air feels thicker than usual today, why his palms are sweating for reasons that are not attributed only to the summer heat.

He hears Eddie squeezing the lotion before he feels a gooey sensation on his back, followed by a pair of very familiar hands spreading the lotion in slow and gentle movements. It’s exactly like how Eddie applies aloe vera gel on his sunburn almost a year ago. But considering that Richie’s skin isn’t on the verge of peeling at any second, the tenderness in Eddie’s hands are a pleasant surprise.

Richie presses his back into Eddie’s touch, letting Eddie’s palm apply more pressure. Eddie’s hands still for a split second before they carry on, touching more firmly than before— more confidently.

Although Richie doesn’t see it, there’s a very small smile that Eddie is trying to suppress, identical to the one Richie is trying to hide as well.

“Okay,” Eddie says, giving Richie’s back a lingering pat, “I think you’re good to go.”

“Really? I’ve got the Doctor K. seal of approval?” Richie looks over his shoulder, grinning at Eddie, “I guess that my life’s goal has just been accomplished.”

“You are such a loser.” Eddie says fondly, “Did you put some on your face yet?”

“Do I need to?”

“Oh my god, Richie.” Eddie says, “You are such an idiot. Turn around. I can’t believe you conveniently forgot about your own face.”

Richie turns around sheepishly, “That’s why I’ve got you, Eddie. You take care of me.”

Eddie stares at Richie, flabbergasted. When Eddie doesn’t reply straight away, Richie wonders if he had said something wrong. Did he upset Eddie?

But Eddie looks down at his hands, white with a thin layer of sunblock. “Yeah, but.. what if..”

Eddie doesn’t finish his sentence, but Richie doesn’t need him to. He knows what Eddie means.

“Why? Do you plan to kill me and leave me in a ditch somewhere if I forget to dry my mug again?”

“No?” Eddie says, wrinkling his nose, “Richie, what—”

“Good.” Richie says, enveloping Eddie’s hands in his own larger ones, “Cause I don’t know what I’d do without my Eddie Spaghetti.”

Neither of them talks about how Richie says _my_ Eddie Spaghetti; or about how Eddie doesn’t say anything about the nickname, or what Richie’s sentence means; or about how Richie doesn’t need Eddie to apply sunblock on his face since he can do it himself. But he takes off his glasses while Eddie squeezes another generous blob onto his palm, gently dabbing at Richie’s face. Richie closes his eyes when Eddie’s finger runs across the top of his eyelids.

Another few minutes passes by in silence before Eddie nods to himself, letting his finger trail along the curve of Richie’s eyelids again. “Alright, you’re good to go.”

“For real?” Richie’s eyes flutter open, meeting Eddie’s steady gaze. Eddie smiles reassuringly.

“Yeah. For real.”

Richie gets off the hammock, running towards the water with barely concealed glee. It’s only after he’s knee deep in the water that he hears a pair of footsteps behind him, still padding carefully on the ground. Richie turns around.

Standing just off the edge where small waves of water slosh against soil and retreat, Eddie stares in Richie’s direction, but he isn’t staring at Richie— he’s staring straight into the water fixatedly.

“Eddie?”

Eddie’s eyes snap up to meet Richie’s. Richie catches a glimpse of the fire in his eyes before Eddie breaks eye contact, bending down to remove his shoes.

“Woah, woah. Eddie, what?”

“I want to go in too.” Eddie says in a low voice.

“Eds— what about falling sick? Didn’t you say that you’ll catch a cold easily if your feet gets wet?”

“Yeah, I know.” Eddie replies, pulling off his socks and stuffing it into his shoes, “But I brought towels along.”

“Eddie..”

“It’s okay, Richie. I want—” Eddie inhales sharply, shaking his head, “I _need_ to do this.”

Richie’s mouth snaps shut. It’s because Eddie says he _needs_ to do this, that makes Richie wonder why it’s so. He doesn’t really understand why Eddie sometimes chooses his words like this, but he supposes that there’s a reason for it that Eddie isn’t comfortable sharing about yet. But it doesn’t really matter, because if it’s Eddie, Richie can wait without waiting. If this is something important to Eddie, he’ll wait quietly.

It takes another few minutes before Eddie’s able to get a foot into the water. His fists are clenched tightly by his sides and his eyes are shut when he finally pokes his toes into the water, sinking his entire foot inside before he opens them again.

They’re glassy with unshed tears when they meet Richie’s stare.

“Eddie,” Richie says, moving forward immediately. He stops a small distance away from Eddie, lifting his hand up for Eddie to hold on to. He doesn’t want to get too close to Eddie, because he knows, just like how he knew that the white space in dreamspace was actually nothingness, that Eddie needs to do this by himself. Richie knows that Eddie knows how much he wants to be there for him, but this moment is something that Eddie needs to do himself.

Eddie’s smile turns watery when he sinks his other foot into the water, lips trembling as he takes shaky steps that closes the distance between Richie and him. When they’re just a step away from each other, Eddie finally takes Richie’s hand, clasping onto it tightly without any intention to let go.

“That’s it,” Richie whispers, walking backwards slowly, guiding Eddie farther into the water, “You’re doing great, Eds. You’re doing so well.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says weakly, “You said that you’d stop calling me Eds if I helped you apply sunblock on your back.”

“No way, Eds is basically your identity now. What am I going to call you if I can’t call you Eds?”

“How about my name, dickwad?”

“Eds?”

“Dick,” Eddie chuckles, “Shut up. You’re such an idiot.”

Richie shrugs it off, “Whatever, being an idiot is basically a big part of who I am too.” Eddie rolls his eyes, smiling up at the sky, “How’re you doing?”

Eddie looks at Richie, eyes still brimming with tears, “I feel like shit. Standing in the middle of Derry piss and shit—”

“There’s literally no shit discharge in the Kenduskeag. And come on, Derry’s sewage system has improved somewhat since the 1950s, pretty sure there isn’t any more gray water in here.”

“I’m pretty sure that there’s at least some pee in here. Have you ever been to a public swimming pool before? People treat them like their own urinals or something. It’s terrible. Disgusting.”

“Dude, have you never ever peed in public pools before?”

“No? I’ve been there like, once, and then my mom..” Eddie sighs, “I haven’t stepped into a pool for a long time, Richie. The first time that I did was also the last time. And I didn’t stay long enough to get to do much of anything in there. I got in, my mom shrieked and threatened to sue everyone— the lifeguard, the swimming instructor nearby that wasn’t even teaching me.. It was the worst.”

“Wait, if your mom didn’t allow you to get in, then how’d you even manage to go inside?”

“I snuck away when she wasn’t looking. Just stripped myself until I was down to my undies and jumped in. Got grounded for a whole month because of that, but I didn’t really have any friends anyway so it didn’t matter much.”

“Aww, my cute little delinquent.” Richie says, ruffling Eddie’s hair. Eddie slaps his hand away.

“Stop it! You’re going to mess up my hair. Besides, you can hardly call that a delinquent, I was just.. breaking my mom’s rules.”

“Yeah, and that’s fucking badass, Eddie. You’re so fucking badass, breaking all the rules your mom set for you. And then doing risky things like this that could get you sick and all. Cleaning my room and hanging out in my room with Jeff, and coming in here and getting your feet all wet. You’re so fucking brave, Eds.”

Eddie’s lips quiver before stray tears spill over, rolling down his face like gems twinkling under the sun. Noticing his own tears, Eddie lets go of Richie’s hands, wiping his face with the back of his hands.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m tearing up,” Eddie says, “I feel so pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic, Eddie. You’re so brave. And I know that you say that you admire Mike’s courage in being able to face Bowers, but you don’t even realise how brave you are too. You have so much courage in you, Eds. I wish you could see it yourself, just how fucking brave you are.”

Eddie sobs, wiping his eyes again. “Since when did you start cleaning up your trash mouth?”

“Hey, even the trash bins needs to get cleared, right? You’re just lucky it got cleared right now. You’ll be hearing stupid shit again in a few hours.”

“Yeah, sounds about right.” Eddie laughs wetly, smiling at Richie with his nose tinged red.

Eddie doesn’t stay long in the water, though, because if he gets a sunburn, things will turn out very badly for him. Richie doesn’t really understand what Eddie means by this, but all Eddie says is that his mom has always warned him that even the mildest sunburn would end up hurting Eddie a lot. But since Eddie doesn’t elaborate further, Richie doesn’t ask. He’s starting to see that Eddie needs to do things by himself before he’s ready to talk, and if that’s the case, Richie is more than willing to wait for Eddie.

Eddie makes pizza for dinner that night, to celebrate his first time stepping into a public pool of water in more than 15 years. It’s a hawaiian pizza that’s split into halves, with one half covered in additional pineapple toppings and the other half without it.

“Fucking disgusting,” Richie remarks, gnawing on a slice of pineapple-free pizza. “Who the hell eats pizza with pineapples? Barbarians, that’s who.”

“Pineapples are actually really good for your health, Rich. And they taste good on pizzas. It’s sweet and balances out the saltiness of the ham slices.”

“Disgusting,” Richie insists. Eddie gives him a dry look.

“Keep bitching about pineapples on my pizza and I’ll make sure to sprinkle them on your side the next time.”

Richie mimes pulling a zip across his lips, which makes Eddie smile around a mouthful of pizza.

“Let’s do this again.” Eddie says.

“Pizza night? Sure, I’m always down for pizza night—”

“No, dumbass,” Eddie sighs wearily, “Let’s play in the Kenduskeag again.”

Richie’s smile fades away, “Really?” he asks, “I mean— you want to?”

“Yeah,” Eddie looks down, pulling the crust away from the rest of his pizza, “I.. I had fun today. Even if I didn’t stay very long. But I want to do it again. It was fun.”

At the end of his sentence, Eddie’s eyes flicker up nervously, meeting Richie’s before breaking eye contact again. Richie reaches over, putting a hand over Eddie’s. Eddie stops peeling the crust when Richie’s hand touches his, lifting his head up hesitantly.

“I had a lot of fun too.” Richie says softly, “We should definitely do it again.”

Eddie’s frown gives way to a brilliant smile, one that has his eyes in half-moons and his gums showing. “Tomorrow?”

“If I don’t get sunburned, yeah, tomorrow.”

“You’re not going to get sunburned— I helped you apply sunblock.”

“Okay, yeah, but that’s why I said ‘if’.”

“And I’m telling you that there’s no need to even use that word. You only use it when there’s a chance of something happening, which it is _not_.”

“Wow, is the engineer really lecturing me on the English language? When did you get a degree in linguistics too?”

“Fuck you.” Eddie says, throwing a piece of crust at Richie’s head. Instead of trying to dodge it, Richie opens his mouth and catches it, chewing on it while winking at Eddie. Eddie practically falls off his chair with laughter and proceeds to spend the rest of the night throwing pieces of his pizza at Richie, seeing how far he can toss it before Richie can’t catch it.

After cleaning up the kitchen, they call it a night. They loiter outside of Richie’s door for a while, bantering as usual before Eddie speaks up.

“Tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, Eds—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“If I don’t get sunburned.”

“You won’t,” Eddie snorts, punching Richie’s arm lightly, “I guarantee that.”

“Okay.” Richie smiles, rubbing his arm while watching Eddie retreat into his room, “See ya tomorrow, Eds.”

Eddie looks over his shoulder one more time. “Call me Eds one more time and it’s gonna be your face and my butt, Tozier.”

“Ooh, I like the sound of that,” Richie hollers. Eddie offers a small but earnest smile in return, flipping the middle finger at Richie before closing the door.

Eddie’s smile is not something that Richie used to see often, but Richie realises now that he’s seeing it more than he used to. The smile itself was enough to unsettle Richie’s stomach, getting it to do small somersaults. The thought that he’d been seeing Eddie smile at him, intentionally.. It was enough to open the bag of butterflies in his stomach, setting them free to fly all around, tingling his fingertips and causing his heart to beat harder than before.

Cupping his face tentatively, Richie presses his lips into a line, staring at the floor beneath him with his cheeks growing warmer and warmer. He doesn’t really understand why Eddie’s little smiles and touches always manage to make him so flustered. He thinks about how Eddie always nags about his bad diet, and he thinks that Eddie has a point— he should probably cut down the bacon and steaks. It’s probably the beginning of a high cholesterol problem that’s making him flush like this or something.

Richie is still staring at the floor, absorbed in his own thoughts when he hears something odd, floating through the air.

_“Rich!”_

It’s Bev’s voice, sounding far away and faded. As if she’s talking through a thick pane of glass. As if he were underwater, and Bev was calling for him from above.

_“Richie! Wake up! Ben and I—”_

And then feels it, a wake of consciousness hits him. He’s weirdly aware that he’s asleep and needs to wake up to _wake up_ , but the decision isn’t his to make. His body starts to feel less like his body, and when he raises his hands to his chest, taking a look at how they shake—

He wakes up to Bev plopping herself on the edge of Richie’s bed, looking down at him the way that Eddie always does when Richie isn’t awake by noon.

“Bought bagels for breakfast. Ben even went to that hipster coffee shop that opened a few blocks away from his place to get you your double-shot latte.” Bev says, tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear. “And it’s gonna get cold if you don’t get up.”

Richie groans. Despite the heaviness behind his eyelids, he forces them open, because it’s _Bev_. Richie can’t even begin to explain how much he missed her in dreamspace, how much he wanted to look around the corner and see her, or to lay on his bed and hear her laughter echo off from somewhere.

When his eyes begin to focus, her face swims into view, soft and doting.

“ _Bev,_ ” Richie breathes out reverently, bringing a hand around her cheek. She moves back with eyes widening until his hand only ghosts her skin, blinking at Richie in surprise. Richie withdraws his hand, drinking in the way that the light coming from between the small slit between his closed curtains hit the back of her head, clouding her face in darkness. Still, he can see the way her eyebrows draw together, bending down to get a better look at Richie.

“Richie? Are you okay?”

No, he is very _not_ okay. He wants to cry, he wants to hug her, he wants to tell her about all the time he spent missing her and Stan and Ben and all the time he spent thinking about them and—

“Ben’s here too?” he rasps.

“Yeah.. Richie, are you— you’re acting really strange. Are you hungover? I don’t smell any alcohol though.”

“No.” Richie shakes his head as hard as he can without triggering the blooming headache, “No. I didn’t drink last night. Fuck, but my head hurts though. My back too. Is this what growing up feels like? I don’t like it.”

“I think you mean growing old. You’re definitely growing old— can’t say much about the growing up part, though. I’ve yet to see it happening.” Bev corrects. Richie flips her the finger, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “If you can complain about it, you’re probably not too sick anyway. More importantly: breakfast. And it's the _good_ bagels you always bitch about.” Bev gives his cheek and affectionate tap while she gets off his bed, “Food’s getting cold.”

The door doesn’t close fully behind her, but it makes a small clicking noise as it bounces back, leaving a small gap. It’s how Richie knows that Bev wants him at the breakfast table. She closes it fully when he doesn’t need to get up.

Richie sighs, feeling a headache creeping up on him when he slides his glasses on clumsily. He expects his room to be bright with opened windows and fresh air drifting through it, but his room is cloaked in more shade than he’s used to. He hasn’t closed his curtains this much since Eddie and him cleaned the room nearly two years ago, because Eddie prefers his room to be brighter and Richie was okay with whatever Eddie wanted.

Above his head, Jeff comes into view. The _real_ Jeff.

“Oh my god,” Richie wheezes. Fuck, he feels like he’s aged years overnight. His back is killing him. Just as he relaxes back onto the mattress, with his gaze bouncing around the room, he remembers something with a vicious suddenness: fuck, he was supposed to be at the barrens with Eddie today.

Shit, shit, fuck. Even if he didn’t promise Eddie, it was basically a promise. And instead, here Richie is, lying in bed staring at Jeff.

What was even worse was not knowing if he was even going to be able to see Eddie again. Fucking fuck. Even if he went back to sleep, would it mean going back to dreamspace again? Meeting Eddie for the second time was a fluke. Would he even be able to see Eddie again if he went back to sleep?

“Rich!” Bev calls out.

“Okay! Okay! I’m awake.” Richie shouts back. His voice sounds hoarse with disuse, which is wrong, because Richie was just here yesterday. He was still talking fine last night, leaving a voicemail for Stan.

He’ll need to check for any messages from Stan later. And then maybe he can properly freak out about whether he can meet Eddie again. That crisis will have to be put on pause until he’s had some coffee in him.

Richie throws his legs over the edge of the bed. When his feet land on clothes that have been there for longer than they should, another wave of nausea hits Richie. He brings a hand to his temple and starts rubbing slow circles.

He doesn’t know why he ever thought that he’d be able to stay in dreamspace with Eddie. Being here right now, in the real world, with so much of it being juxtaposed to the dreamspace, makes Richie want to throw up. When he looks around his room, all he sees are places where Eddie has been, the things that should have been there are not and the things that are there should have been packed away a long time ago.

Richie stands on unsteady feet, taking careful steps out of his room.

The flat is bright outside and it assaults his vision, the bright light flooding in too much, too bright. Richie brings a hand over his eyes as he makes his way to the bathroom.

When he looks in the mirror, he can’t help the loud groan that escapes him. He’s a fucking mess. He’s never seen himself look so frazzled before.

Where his hair isn’t sticking to the sweat on his neck, it’s jutting out in random directions. There are going to be so many tangles he’ll have to sort out himself later tonight. On one side of his cheeks, there are fabric lines imprinted from the long hours he spent in a single position. A still damp line of drool runs down his mouth, disappearing into the hair sticking behind his ears. It’s starting to crust with white borders. And the light stubble across his jaw makes him look more dishevelled than he _feels_ , and it’s a tight competition. He feels utterly wrecked. He feels like he’s been asleep for years and decades.

An aged soul in a young body, is what he is.

Also, his back is fucking him up.

A leak, a splash of cold water against his face, and a thorough brush of his teeth. Although his father may have been more lax with other parts of Richie’s personal hygiene, he never compromised on oral hygiene. Richie knows how to keep his teeth clean.

When he joins Bev and Ben at the table in the kitchen, Ben does a double-take.

“Woah, Richie,” Ben says.

“I know,” is all Richie says. Ben smiles apologetically, patting Richie’s arm as he slides a cup of coffee over the table to Richie. Richie accepts it with a two-finger salute to Ben.

Ben is a man that’s almost as tall as Richie, but definitely more filled in than Richie. Standing next to Ben makes Richie look like a bean sprout, and Richie is definitely not a bean sprout. Ben’s shoulders are broader and his arms are bigger than Richie’s, packed with a nice balance of muscles. The way that his legs fill in his jeans should be considered sinful, and even if Richie isn’t interested in Ben, he’ll be the first to admit that Ben has a _great_ ass.

What Bev likes most about Ben’s body is the way that his stomach is still soft, because according to her, it’s the most comfortable place to lean on. He hadn’t been so fit when they met him 2 years ago, but lifestyle changes led to him losing a lot of weight in his arms and legs. Only his stomach remained soft to touch, and Bev never passes up the opportunity to rest her head on it and tell him how much she loves him.

All in all, Ben’s a great guy. He loves Bev and looks at her like she hung the moon, 2 years after they met and got together. He’s always trying to make everyone’s lives better (which he does) and he’s the kind of friend that goes out of his way to help. Which kind of explains the coffee and breakfast, because Ben knows about Richie’s bad eating habits and tries to make sure that Richie eats regular meals.

“Bev told me that you liked the latte from this store. I haven’t tried the coffee from this place myself until this morning. You have good taste, Richie. The coffee’s great.”

“Don’t say that to him, please, Ben. His ego doesn’t need any more boosting.” Bev says, distributing plates to them. Ben doesn’t laugh, although Richie can’t say that he doesn’t look a second away from it. “I’m going to freshen up quickly. Can you help me to unpack the bagels?”

Ben nods, “Go ahead.”

Bev presses a kiss to Ben’s temple as she passes, “Thanks, babe.”

The sound of the toilet lock echoes through the quiet flat, then Ben turns to Richie.

“Hey,” Ben says, nudging Richie to pass the paper bag over, which Richie does, somewhat mechanically.

“Yeah, Haystack?”

“Um,” Ben squirms, worrying his lip between his teeth. He looks awkward but determined— Richie knows this because it was the way that Ben used to look around Bev before they got their shit together, when they were still “casually hanging out” although with the way that Ben was always giving Bev puppy eyes, it couldn’t have been that casual anyway.

So Richie stares at Ben— really _stares_ — because, what the _fuck_ is it? Just say it already. Richie doesn’t enjoy moments of suspense where he’s waiting for the other person to say what’s on their minds. There is literally only one person who makes the wait worth it, and that person is probably splashing around the Kenduskeag all alone because Richie fucking stood him up.

What the fuck, Richie feels like a dick now. He wants to know what Eddie must be thinking about him now, but he’s too afraid to even think about it.

So instead, in true Richie style, he jokes, “What? Is this gonna be a love confession? You’re not in love with me, are you? Cause you know that I think you’re one _fine_ specimen, Ben, but I don’t think that Bev’s gonna be eager to share you with me.”

This shocks Ben out of his unease. “What?” he stammers, “No! Of course not. Jesus, Rich.” and in a softer voice with a blush on his face, he says, “And.. I wouldn’t want to have an open relationship, anyway.”

Richie opens the flap on the lid of the coffee, bringing it up to his lips without care because life’s too short to worry about small things like burning your tongue.

The coffee isn’t that hot anymore anyway, so he doesn’t burn his tongue.

“Just checking. You’ve got that whole,” Richie makes a circle around his own face, “Thing going on with your face.”

Ben frowns, “What ‘thing’?”

“The thing your face always does when you get nervous around Bev.”

Ben’s frown deepens, and worry lines across his forehead become visible for a second. “My face does a thing around Bev?”

Richie snorts into his coffee, “Buddy, your face does a _lot_ of things around Bev.”

Ben covers his face with his hands in horror, “Oh my god, why are you only just telling me now?” a pause, “Oh my _god_ , do you think this is how Bev keeps winning me in poker?”

“Yes, Ben. Your poker face is awful.” Richie wrinkles his nose, “I thought you let her win.”

“Richie,” Ben says seriously, “I have lost more than a hundred at poker. Why would I let her win that much?!”

“I don’t know, because you love her?”

Ben pauses thoughtfully, hands sliding down his face in deep consideration. “Yeah. You’re right. I do love her.”

Richie gives Ben a smile and a pat on the back, indulging in another long sip of warm coffee as he does. Good on ya for figuring that out, Benny boy.

The toilet door clicks open and Bev joins them again quickly. “Did I miss anything while I was gone?”

“Ben just figured out that he has a shit poker face. Also, that he loves you.”

Bev turns to Ben with a sweet smile that’s turning into a grin. “Aww, that’s so sweet of you, babe.”

They lean in for a quick peck on the lips as Richie grunts, “Oh my god, not at the table you guys.”

“Richie, the day that you get together with someone is the day that I’ll make you eat your words.” Bev says calmly, nudging Ben with the back of her hand, “Babe, wouldn’t he be like one of those people that you’d have to constantly remind to get a room?”

Ben snickers, “Yep, absolutely. I can see it. I think he’ll be like one of those people who’re always feeling up their partner.”

“Right? Imagine walking into this place one day and seeing him get handsy in the kitchen or something.” Bev’s face scrunches up as she ponders on her words, “Actually, I think he’d get handsy anywhere. I can see it happening. He’d be so horny everywhere he goes.”

“You say that like I’m not _already_ horny in—”

“Anyway,” Ben cuts in, shooting Richie a very pointed look, “We bought four flavours of bagel. I think there’s enough choices here for each of us to choose from.”

Yeah, there’s four bagels to choose from, all right. But Richie zooms in on the sesame seed bagel with avocado and salmon. That’s the only correct option when it comes to eating bagels, obviously.

Not that Richie has really tried other combinations of bagel. What for?

Richie’s reaching across the table to pick it up when Ben promptly smacks his hand away, looking at him sheepishly as if he didn’t just do that.

“Ow, what the fuck?” Richie cries indignantly, retracting his hand.

“Sorry,” Ben offers another apologetic smile, “That’s Bev’s.”

“What? But— I liked it first!” Richie sputters, looking between Ben and Bev in betrayal. Bev holds her fist out and Ben taps her fist with his own. Their fingers wiggle as they pull back from each other’s fists, both of them sharing a very smug look. “You totally stole that from me, Bev. Not cool.”

“What is this? Grade school?” Bev clicks her tongue, but she’s smirking at Richie with an evil glint in her eye. Beside her, Ben shrugs.

“Oh, I see how it is. Playing favourites and all that. Okay, fine. Just wait until I get a boyfriend. It’ll be over for you bitches.” Richie says, reaching for the bagel with the fried egg inside when he sees the one next to it with scrambled egg. Ooh, scrambled egg. He picks that one up instead, already biting into it and nearly missing the weird look he’s getting from Bev. “What?” is nearly indecipherable around a mouth of food.

“Just..” Bev says, eyeing him from the side while peeling off the wrapping paper from her own bagel, “I thought you preferred fried egg.”

Richie blinks. “Oh.” he looks down at his bagel, scrambled egg spilling out of the sides. Bev’s right. Richie does prefer fried egg usually, always picking it to scrambled egg if he had an option. But..

Eddie loves scrambled eggs. Eddie always cooks scrambled eggs for himself, which Richie, aiming to rile Eddie up, always takes a portion of for himself. He’s gotten so used to eating scrambled egg that he hadn’t realised that his dietary preferences had changed.

Until now.

“Well,” Richie tries saying nonchalantly, rolling his shoulders, “I felt like scrambled eggs today.”

Bev gives him another weird look before she bites into her own food.

The rest of breakfast passes in relative quiet. They don’t always get to have breakfast like this because of their different schedules, but when they do, Richie’s usually louder than this, and Bev feeds off his energy, returning the same bark that Richie gives. But today, Richie’s head continues to spin. It feels out of place to be here, when he’s already lived through this moment in a different place, with a different person. It makes his head hurt when he thinks about how much time he’s lived through, condensed into a span of a few hours.

He doesn’t want to think about it, but he has to. People don’t get soulmate dreams twice. They only get them once in a lifetime. If Richie is sure that the dream from two days ago— the one he first met Eddie in— was his soulmate dream, then he has to give up the idea that Eddie is his soulmate. Eddie can’t be his soulmate because he’s been in the same place twice. People don’t get second chances for this kind of thing, much less _Richie Tozier_. The logical side of his brain is _still_ trying to hammer this message in: Eddie is part of your subconscious! He does not actually exist! He is not your soulmate!

But the more instinct-driven side of Richie still firmly believes that Eddie _is_ his soulmate. Logic be damned, he knows, deep in his core, that this is the guy for him. Eddie is _it_ for him. There’s never going to be another person who makes Richie feel as alive as he was in the time that they spent together. There’s never going to be another person who makes Richie _thankful_ to be alive, the way that Eddie does.

Eddie is his soulmate. He’s pretty fucking sure that Eddie is. And the fact that Eddie _knows_ about Derry, the fact that Eddie _knows_ about the barrens and the Aladdin theatre and the Hanlons— more specifically, Mike Hanlon. All of this is hard evidence that Eddie does exist in real life. The fact Richie doesn’t know Mike, but Eddie does, is proof enough that Eddie exists in real life, separate from Richie’s subconscious.

But how does he explain the two dreams then?

Richie swallows his food with difficulty.

Bev finishes her food first. She’s standing up to wash her plate in the sink when she says, “Stan’s flying in tomorrow, by the way. And he’s bringing Patty this time, too.”

“Oh, yeah.” Richie acknowledges belatedly, “I’ll set up an air mattress later. Will Ben be staying with us too?”

Ben nods, “I think so. Bev says it’s a good idea to meet Patty too.”

Richie nods mindlessly. Yeah, sounds right. Stan’s going to marry Patty— undoubtedly— just like Bev is going to marry Ben one day. It’s better for them to meet and get introduced.

Briefly, Richie thinks about how his friends have managed to fall into the small percentage of people who meet their soulmates and actually fall in love with them. Jealousy constricts his chest painfully before he brushes the thought away. He isn’t going to be jealous of them— he’s _happy_ for them. Genuinely happy.

It’s just that being the only one who’s struggling to find love in this wide, vast world sucks.

At least he knows Eddie’s name now. Even if he doesn’t get to go back to dreamspace, that’s something to start with.

Bev gives them a kind smile as she walks by, pausing at the front of her room. “I’m going to change out of my clothes and then we can go.”

“We?” Richie says, looking between Ben and Bev confusedly.

“Ben and I, I mean.” Bev clarifies.

“I’ve still got my last presentation tomorrow, so.. I’m going to be borrowing Bev for tonight.” Ben explains, sipping his coffee leisurely. Richie nods in understanding. It’s something that they always do when Ben has his big presentation coming up, because Bev is a _great_ presenter and although Ben is good by all metrics, Bev always has something to value-add.

“Give me 5,” Bev says, disappearing into her room. The door slams shut with a loud bang that echoes in the quiet flat.

“Alright,” Richie answers belatedly to Bev. He finishes his bagel and takes a long sip of his lukewarm coffee as he turns to Ben, Richie whistling loudly.

“Shut up, Richie. She’s just going to help me with my presentation.”

Richie knows, but he likes how flustered Ben always gets whenever the topic of staying overnight comes up anyway. He doesn’t even know why Ben _still_ gets flustered— they’ve been together for nearly 2 years and most of their overnight stays have been PG as fuck. Even Richie, the only single asshole in his group of happily attached friends, has more explicit nights than they do.

Come to think of it, Richie probably has the most explicit nights among all his friends.

“I didn’t say anything.” Richie says defensively.

“You were about to.”

Okay, that’s fair. Richie shrugs, crumpling the wrapper into a ball and throwing it on the table.

“Hey,” Ben murmurs after Richie’s done with his coffee and Ben is clearing up the table. He isn’t looking at Richie, though, presumably to hide whatever his face is doing at the moment. Richie arches an eyebrow, leaning back against the chair with arms folded across his chest. “Um, I just wanted to say..”

There is a _very_ long pause before Ben continues. Once again, Richie is reminded of how oddly patient he is with Eddie. It’s probably something to do with being soulmates that calms him. Instead, he’s bouncing his leg up and down, just waiting for Ben to _say it already_.

“I just wanted to tell you that I heard about it. I’m really happy for you, Richie.”

“You heard about.. what?” Richie frowns.

Ben’s gaze bounces around the room, resolutely looking everywhere else but at Richie. “You know.” No, Richie doesn’t know. That’s the whole point of asking. “Your soulmate dream.”

“Oh.”

“I hope you’re not mad that I heard about it.” Ben interjects, glancing up at Richie nervously, “I mean, I’m sorry. But I’m really glad for you, Richie.”

“Oh. Well, no. I’m not mad about it.” Richie says, waving a hand dismissively. Immediately, some of the tension eases off Ben’s posture. His arms go slack and there’s a thin smile on his face. “But—” he says, then stops himself.

What? But what? _But my soulmate dream came again, so it couldn’t have been an actual soulmate dream? But actually, he’s my soulmate, but I can’t explain why I’ve got the dream twice. Any suggestions for me, bud?_

“Yeah,” Richie says instead, “Thanks a lot, Ben. It means a lot to me that you’re happy for me.”

Ben’s eyes light up. “Yeah, Richie. Of course.” is all he says. He doesn’t press about who it was. He doesn’t ask where Richie’s soulmate is. Maybe Ben already heard from Bev that Richie doesn’t know, which is not exactly a lie but it’s not the whole truth either. It’s not like Richie could have told Bev about the second dream before breakfast, right? So he’ll just have to update her later or something.

But, most probably, Ben doesn’t ask because that’s how Ben is. He’s the awfully nice and thoughtful friend that you sometimes wonder if they ever get irritated or upset by anything.

They clean up the kitchen before Bev reappears from her room, looking stunning as usual in a floral-print sundress and a matching mustard purse to go along with it. Ben beams at her, giving her a chaste kiss on the lips before they head off. Richie waves them goodbye and then retreats to his room when they’re gone.

Sitting heavily on his bed, Richie picks up his phone hidden under the pillow. Stan’s left a message.

_**STAN THE MAN** _

_?_

Richie begins to type a reply.

_hope this isn’t a bad time or anything but_

Backspace.

_hey do u know anything about_

Backspace.

_this is gonna sound crazy but do u think that you can meet your soulmate twice in_

Backspace.

After having an internal debate with himself, Richie decides to call Stan instead of typing messages he ends up deleting mere seconds later.

It takes five rings before Stan picks up.

“Richie.” Stan says by way of greeting.

“Stan the Man!” Richie half-shouts gleefully, jumping on his bed, “Top of the mornin to ya.”

“Richie, we’ve been over this. Top of the morning means it’s noon. It’s currently nine in the morning, which means that you better have a good reason for calling.”

“What? You mean you don’t like being woken up at the asscrack of dawn to the sound of music?”

“Your voice is hardly music to anyone’s ears, I promise you that.”

“Semantics, semantics.”

“Anyway, sorry that I missed your call last night. I was packing for today’s flight. Was it something important?”

“Oh, yeah. No, it wasn’t important—”

Stan sighs heavily over the phone, “You’re a bad liar, Richie. What happened this time?”

“Is that a back-handed compliment? Not sure how to feel about being called a bad liar. I mean, on the one hand, it means that I’m an honest guy since I can’t lie for shit, but also, I’m a bad liar. But you know, fuck being a good liar. Shit’s overrated anyway—”

“Richie.”

“Okay, okay. I was getting to it.” Richie crawls onto his bed, letting himself sigh inaudibly to Jeff. If Richie had the energy, he’d pretend that Jeff was offering some kind of emotional support to Richie right now. Thanks, Jeff. “So, you know, I was searching on the internet about soulmate dreams and stuff. And about how they only come once in a lifetime. I think that’s pretty much common knowledge by now, like how the Earth is flat and shit. Okay, maybe that was a bad example, since _Flat Earthers_. But you get what I mean.

“So, you know, I guess it’s universally accepted that those dreams only come once, right? I mean, I don’t think you or Bev have mentioned getting them again. Right? Cause if you did and totally didn’t tell me then I will have words with you, man.”

“No, Richie.” Stan says exasperatedly, “I’ve only had it once.”

“Right. So, anyway. I guess what I’m trying to say is that. Um. Two nights ago I had a dream. And I was pretty fucking sure that it was my soulmate dream, because I had the feeling. Can’t describe it, but I just, you know, _knew_. Like how you told me you knew about Patty. Yeah. So, the thing is that I didn’t actually get a chance to ask for his name or where he was, or to tell him where _I_ was, or my name. I woke up and I guess I was pretty bummed about it for an entire day, cause I thought that I wasn’t gonna get the chance to see him again. Right?”

Stan doesn’t reply, so Richie continues.

“So, anyway, I was pretty sure that that was gonna be _it_. Like, I’d never see him again. Sayonara. Goodbye, sweet thing. Fleeting love, right person wrong time kinda thing. It’s almost like one of those bad romance novels that try to sound philosophical and shit, but don’t ever really talk about anything meaningful. Fucking Haruki Murakami stuff. And yeah, I admit that I was getting mopey about it and Bev had to give me sad hugs and all, and I thought that that was gonna be it. Except that I saw him again.”

Stan draws a sharp breath, even if it was nearly inaudible through the receiver.

“Yeah. So I called you, got sent to voicemail, and then I kinda fell asleep. And then I went back to the same place that I was, man. It was the same fucking room, the same fucking person. And I was fucking— I was losing my shit, dude. It wasn’t even like a recurring dream or anything, it was like a _continuation_ of where we left off. And that wasn’t even the craziest part of it all. The craziest part was that I spent about _two whole years_ in that place. Dude, three summers went by before I woke up. I legitly spent two years in that place alone with my soulmate. How the hell is that possible?! Am I going crazy or something, Stan?!”

“Okay,” Stan says calmly, “Firstly, you need to take a breath, Richie. Can you do that?”

“Yeah. Okay, yeah. I probably. You’re right.” In, and oooout. In, and _oooout_.

“Secondly, no. I don’t think you’re going crazy. I mean, you were already crazy from the moment that I met you. So, no. I don’t think that you can _still_ be going crazy.”

“Wow, some fucking friend you are Staniel.”

“And, unfortunately or not, I believe you. I don’t know how you can get two soulmate dreams, but nothing about you makes sense, so that’s something that’s still true at least.”

“Fuck off.” Richie says, smiling over the receiver.

“And because you can’t actually see me roll my eyes right now, I am obliged to let you know that I am rolling my eyes right now.”

“Yeah, yeah. When do you not?”

“But on a serious note, can I clarify that I heard you correctly? So you met your soulmate twice in two separate dreams, and you spent more than two years in the second dream?”

“Yeah. Exactly that.”

“Okay.” There’s some shuffling sounds in the background and the sound of a door closing gently before Stan speaks again, “You said that you spent some time in the second dream. Did you manage to find out anything about your soulmate? Name or anything? Maybe we can find them online.”

“Yeah. Uh, this is where it gets even weirder. Stop rolling your eyes at me. I _know_ that you’re rolling your eyes right now, even if I can’t see them. And you know what? They’re gonna roll out of your head if you keep rolling them like a fucking yoyo. Anyway, shit got real on my birthday in dreamspace. So I was feeling all sorts of weird. And— okay, I was feeling sentimental—”

“Sentimental.” Stan deadpans.

“Yeah, sentimental. Shut the fuck up, Uris. I was all sad and missing you and Bev and Ben and Maggie and Wentworth, okay? It happens, especially when you’ve spent a whole year away from all your friends and family. So I guess in the middle of this sentimentalness, I kind of recreated the barrens—”

“You recreated the barrens.” Stan repeats, “Of all the places to recreate.”

“Well, fuck me, Stan. Are you going to actually shut up and let me finish or are you gonna keep judging every aspect of my life? Because if you’re going to do the latter, I’ve got news for you: you’re never gonna be able to finish it.”

“Yeah, I know, Richie. I’ve been judging you since we were kids but I still find myself constantly astounded by your bad life choices on a daily basis. It’s amazing.”

“Wow. The fact that I live rent free in your mind.” Richie gasps dramatically. When Stan doesn’t reply, Richie knows that it’s because Stan is _done_ and just waiting for Richie to finish talking so he can get on with his day.

It’s just another reminder of how Eddie is the only one who returns every comment with his own. Wow, he really misses Eddie already. And it’s only been an hour since he woke up.

“Okay, so anyway, I recreated the barrens. And then _he_ comes along to our usual hideout—”

“Wait, how’d he know where to go? That place is really concealed.”

“Exactly!” Richie yells, jumping off his bed, “And that’s what I said to him too! And guess what? He’s a Maine native. Not just that, but a _Derry-born_ too! What are the fucking odds of that, Stanley?

“He’s from Derry?” Stan says, half-excited and half-shocked. Richie laughs.

“Yeah, he is. When we were trying to match our timelines, we found that he moved out of Derry just before I moved in. Apparently.”

“Well? What’s his name?” Stan asks impatiently. He almost never does, which makes Richie feel awfully touched that Stan’s as excited about this as he is.

“Eddie Kaspbrak. Well, his full name is Edward Kaspbrak but he says no one ever calls him _Edward_. But I just call him Eds, or Spaghetti, or—”

“I don’t want to know your pet names for him, Richie.” Stan groans. Richie imagines Stan rubbing his eyes in defeat. “Eddie Kaspbrak,” Stan echoes thoughtfully to himself, “Can’t say that I remember the name for sure, I don’t think I’ve ever met him in person before.. but it does sound familiar.”

Richie’s heart does a somersault. He thinks his heart is gonna twist itself into a dead knot and cut off all blood supply to his brain. And then he would die. Alternatively, Richie thinks he might just die of exhilaration too.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve heard that name in a long time. But I think it rings a bell. Eddie Kaspbrak, huh. If I’ve got the right person, then I think you should check with Bill.”

“Bill? Bill Denbrough? Why?”

“Because when we were younger, before I became friends with Bill, Eddie was Bill’s friend. Bill called Eddie his only real friend before Eddie moved out of Derry.”

Oh, so that’s the other friend Eddie was talking about. Bill.

“Alright. Bill Denbrough. I don’t think I have his contact now, though. I think I took his number before I moved out but I might have lost it by now.”

“I have it.” Stan says, “I could drop a message in for you, if you’d like.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Aww, thanks, Stan.” Richie says. He can’t help but beam to himself and also to Jeff. “But, you’re not gonna say anything embarrassing, right? Like, you’re not going to mention anything about the soulmate dream and stuff?”

“Richie, do I look like that kind of person to you?”

“No, not really. But there’s always a chance—”

“I’m not, okay? I’ll just ask if he had a friend named Eddie Kaspbrak from Derry. Nothing else.”

“Okay. Yeah, that sounds good.” Richie is about to end the call when he remembers someone else, someone Eddie knows too. “Oh, hey, by the way.”

Stan makes an affirmative sound over the phone.

“Do you know of a guy named Mike Hanlon?”

There’s a hush that falls over them for a few moments while Stan ponders on it. “Mike Hanlon?” Stan says at last, with a hint of uncertainty in his tone, “You mean the kid who was homeschooled?”

Richie sucks in a breath, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. You know him?”

“Not really.” Stan says, “I know him just as well as you do, probably. We’ve never spoken before, if that’s what you’re wondering about. Why?”

“Nothing.” Richie says, “It’s just, Eddie talked about Mike. That’s all.”

Stan doesn’t say anything long enough for Richie to adjust his glasses in nervousness. “What did he say?”

“Just that, Mike was a good friend. He talked about Bowers too. About how Mike saved him from Bowers.”

“Huh,” Stan sighs, “That’s interesting.”

“Yeah. And, I mean, I didn’t even know Mike was homeschooled until Eddie told me. So this just means that Eddie _has_ to be real, right? I mean, I’m not losing my mind. How else would I know about this, right?”

“Hmm,” Stan hums thoughtfully, “I don’t want to say anything definitive, but.. It’s like I said, Eddie Kaspbrak is a familiar name. I think that Bill would be able to tell me more about it. I’ll give him a call and let you know if I find out about anything. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, that’s..” Richie exhales breathlessly, “That’s more than okay. Just— thanks, Stan. I really appreciate it a lot.”

Stan is silent for a moment, but it feels much longer than that. “You’re welcome, Richie. I’m happy for you and I hope it works out.”

Richie spends the rest of the day cleaning his room.

It reminds him a lot of the way that he and Eddie did it. Starting with the floor, throwing all his unwashed clothing into different baskets sorted according to tops, bottoms and underwear, and _then_ by whether they leaked or not.

_“How would I know if they leak?!” Richie cried._

_“Oh my god,” Eddie grits out, “You’re impossible. How the hell do you not know to separate your clothes like this?!”_

This time, Richie sorts them out by himself. It’s easier now that he’s done it many times before. He puts his clothes in ordered piles and loads them in one batch at a time. When it’s done, he unfolds the big clothes rack Bev bought months ago and hangs them neatly in the middle of the living room, with all the windows opened.

Richie is sitting in the middle of his belongings strewn out on the floor when he hears the door opening and closing softly. Curious, Richie turns around at the same moment that Bev walks by, then walks backwards, peering into Richie’s opened door.

“Hey, Bev.” Richie says, “What’re you doing here? I thought you were helping Ben with his presentation.”

“Yeah, I am.” Bev says, walking into Richie’s room, “But I forgot to bring his button up shirt, so..” Bev chuckles, looking around Richie’s room, “And I see that you’ve been cleaning.”

“Yep. Are you proud of me?”

“Very,” Bev nods in approval, marvelling at the floor, “I can actually see the floor now.”

“It wasn’t even that bad, you just think it was.”

“Trust me, Richie, it was bad.” Bev says. “What’s that in your hand?”

“Look what I found. It’s a picture of us!”

Bev walks to his side and sits down behind him, taking the picture and running a finger across their happy faces. Three kids sitting on the sidewalk outside a nondescript shop selling second hand goods.

“This was six years ago,” Bev exhales to herself, “We looked so young.”

“Uh, speak for yourself, Marsh. I’m pretty sure that I still look the same.”

Bev gives Richie a very pointed and very thorough once over in the same way that Stan would have, lingering on his small tummy. Richie feels both very fond and very offended in equal parts.

“I resent that.” Richie says, rubbing his stomach, “It’s the food baby.”

“Sure, it’s just the food baby.” Bev snorts, side-glancing at Richie before looking back at the picture between her fingers. Her smile drops as a wistful look comes over her eyes, “We never really took pictures back then,” Bev says, breaking the moment, “In Derry. I hardly have any photos of mine.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Richie snickers, “We fucking hated it back there.”

“Yeah, but still.” a small, wistful smile graces Bev’s chapped lips, “I wish that I had more photos to remember the years we spent together. They’re never coming back and memory is unreliable. I think it would’ve been nice to be able to look through photos we took then and laugh at how much has changed.”

Richie nods in agreement.

“But anyway, Richie... what’s happening with you today?”

“Uh. What?”

“You look at me like I’ve disappeared off the face of the world and only just recently resurfaced. You’re eating food that you never really eat unless you don’t have better alternatives. And now, with the packing and laundry..” Bev looks into Richie’s eyes worriedly, “Don’t get me wrong— I think it’s great that you’re finally packing and all. Especially with Stan and Patty arriving tomorrow, I think it’ll be a good first impression for Patty. But, you worry me, Richie. Did something happen?”

There’s a thought that crosses Richie’s mind: lie to Bev. Technically, it’s not really lying, because nothing _happened_. Everything that happened, happened strictly in the other world, in dreamspace. Richie is still plain old Richie here. Nothing much going on, please move along.

But he can’t really tell Bev that nothing happened either. Ben’s got a shit poker face, and even if Richie is slightly better at it, Bev still knows him far too well for him to want to attempt it anyway. It’s pointless. And maybe Bev would understand if he doesn’t want to talk about it yet, but Richie doesn’t like hiding stuff from her either. She opened up to Richie when she was at her most vulnerable, and there’s a certain level of trust in their friendship that comes along with the things that they talk to each other about.

So Richie sucks in a long breath and spills everything to Bev. He’s more collected than he was with Stan, and sometimes he feels weirdly detached from his own story— like the third-party narrator of a book. Bev sits close to him, shoulder to shoulder and knee against knee, nodding in affirmation but not commenting on anything until Richie is done.

At the end of it, Bev leans fully against Richie, resting her head on his shoulder. Richie leans down at an angle to rest his head against hers.

“I don’t know what to say.” she says quietly. Richie nods.

“Yeah, I get it. I wouldn’t know what to say if someone else had told me this either. It’s the bizarrest shit ever.”

“Well, maybe not the bizarrest shit ever. Some of the things you do while you’re drunk.. it’s even weirder than this.”

They both laugh quietly, sharing a quiet moment before Richie speaks up again.

“Do you think he’s real?” Richie asks, “I think he is, but that could just be my wishful thinking.”

Bev furrows her brows, eyes staring hard at the Smiths poster on the opposite wall. “I think that if Stan remembers the name, then there’s a good chance that he’s real. I honestly don’t remember an Eddie Kaspbrak in Derry, but that could be because we were so young when Eddie supposedly moved out. I may not have noticed him then, but Stan has a better memory than I do. I trust him.”

“I trust him too.” Richie says.

Bev smiles up at Richie as she takes his much larger and rougher hands into hers. Her palm smooths over his slowly in circles.

They stay like this for another few more minutes, silently soaking in the support and love from each other.

When his room is tidier (because there’s only so much that Richie can do in one day) and his laundry folded and kept away in the cupboard, Richie finds himself absolutely exhausted. He feels it seep into the marrow of his bones, and deeper than that. His body feels ten times heavier than it usually is. It feels like an unfamiliar machine that he has to maneuver, awkward and clumsy and stiff.

Richie all but falls onto his bed, sluggishly pulling the covers over his half-naked torso and worming a comfortable trench into his pillow. At last, he sighs contentedly, looking back at Jeff with his mind floating away. It’s going back to one place that he remembered spending a lot of time in the last few years that passed in hours, wanting the familiarity of the weight of a body sinking the mattress on the side, of sinewy limbs pressing into the arch of his back, of warm eyes blinking sleep away, a small yawn breaking the morning quiet between them.

As his eyes begin to shutter close, he dreamed of a room that was pristine and neat, of—

Covers that smelt like sandalwood.

Richie blinks once, and then again to make sure of it. There was that Smiths poster that he pasted on Eddie’s ceiling adjacent to the bed years ago.

It is slightly dogeared now. The edges are pressed in, as if someone had desperately tried to make the blu tack behind the poster stick to the wall. The gloss of the poster is slightly worn, and on one of the corners slightly curled inwards, Richie can see the beginnings of the white turning into a sickly yellow. But it is still in the crooked position that Richie had put it in. The thought that Eddie could have easily readjusted the poster by using a ladder or something, but didn’t, brings a smile to Richie’s face.

He’s back in dreamspace. Holy fuck, he never thought that he’d ever see this place again, but here he is and _god_ is he thankful for it. He’s so fucking thankful that he gets another chance to be with Eddie again. He doesn’t know how fucking lucky he must be to get this chance.

Supporting himself on an elbow, Richie scans the room quickly. As it turns out, the appearance of his Smiths poster isn’t the only thing that has changed.

When Richie turns his body, throwing the covers off of him, he realises that the fabric under his fingers are different too. It is thinner than Eddie’s covers, and brighter. Unevenly shaped white triangles and circles dance around the navy background with stars sprinkled across. A bedsheet from a clearance sale when he had just moved out of Derry and into New York with Bev. Bev called it cute, and said that it suited Richie. Richie called it cheap and bought it.

He had brought it along into the dreamspace, and now Eddie had brought it into his room.

And suddenly, with a sense of urgency, Richie scans the other parts of Eddie's room. The changes don't stop at the poster or the sheets, but are evident throughout the room. There’s a light layer of frost that covered Eddie’s window, and the lawn outside was now a sheet of white. There are more additions to the books on the shelves now. Although he can’t see what exactly they are, he can see that they’re slightly bulky.

_That’s right_ , Richie thinks, _I can’t see things I don’t know about._

But there’s something that Richie _can_ see: sandwiched behind these books are his comics, haggard but neatly tucked in with all the other books. It makes Richie want to smile and cry because he knows without any doubt that that’s the kind of book that’s been opened and flipped through time and time again, and it’s worn but well-loved and it’s _his._ Eddie kept his stuff.

God, how long has it been? When he was last here, it was still summer, but it is winter now. Has he really been gone for nearly half a year?

He has to find Eddie. He _needs_ to find Eddie.

Richie gets off the bed and rummages through Eddie’s closet, throwing on an unfamiliar-looking sweater before he races out of Eddie’s room.

The first place that Richie looks is in his own room. He opens his room door and slams it shut when he finds it empty.

Then he tries the barrens.

Richie yanks the door open, slightly breathless from the nervousness eating away inside of him. Despite the size of the barrens, Richie knows that Eddie would only be in one place.

He runs off in the direction of the clearing.

The barrens is quiet. Without the water rushing down, breaking apart on rough rocks in the way, all Richie can hear is his own harsh breathing. The cold wind cuts the exposed skin of his leg, from the thicker parts of his inner thigh left exposed by his shorts, to the skin on the arch of his feet where he was barefoot. Small stones dig into his soles as he goes by, leaving their little traces of dirt and shapes on the hardened parts of his skin.

The distance that seemed so short when he was with Eddie suddenly felt the length of a full marathon, and when Richie starts to see the silhouette of a man sitting by the edge of the frozen water, he knows that he has arrived at the finish line.

Richie’s heavy footsteps must have alerted Eddie, because Eddie was suddenly scrambling up from his seat, spinning around with a look of revelation on his face.

Richie stops a distance away from Eddie.

“Richie?” Eddie says, his voice wavering.

“Yeah, Eds, it’s me.” Richie replies.

“Richie?” Eddie says again, not believing his eyes. His feet begin to stagger towards Richie, but not once did he trip over the rocky ground under him with his eyes glued to Richie. He knows the ground. He knows where to move.

How many times has Eddie been here when Richie was away, for him to know this place so well?

Finally, when Eddie was just a step away, Richie breathes out. “Yeah, Eds. It’s really me.”

Eddie’s hands trembles slightly as it reaches up to cup Richie’s face gently. Eddie’s eyes pours over Richie’s face, studying, searching, memorising.

“Richie.” he says at last, the edge of his lips shaking with sadness.

Richie’s hands cover Eddie’s, thumbs mapping the veins on the back of Eddie’s hand. It has changed over the time that he was gone, with new additions to it. It’s no longer as smooth as it was before, and even his fingers feel harder than they did.

And that was not all that had changed about Eddie.

Up close now, Richie can see the small lines at the sides of Eddie’s eyes. They are so faint, but Richie had never seen them before. The way that Eddie’s jaw became more squared, and the way that the last baby fat on his cheeks had been lost caused a small pang of regret in Richie’s chest. He should’ve been here to see it, but he wasn’t. How much time has passed in his absence? He’s beginning to fear that it has been much longer than half a year.

“Eddie—”

“I waited for you,” Eddie croaks, voice choked with emotion. Tears start pooling in his eyes. “I waited for you, Richie.” At the end of his sentence, Eddie breaks into a heartbreaking sob that Richie never wants to hear again. It feels like a story that only Eddie knows about, something that goes over Richie’s head. Tears spill from his eyes.

“Eddie,” Richie says softly, releasing Eddie’s hands to wipe away the tears that roll down Eddie’s face, forcing Eddie to look back at Richie.

For a moment, Richie wishes that he could remain in this way forever. That he can hold Eddie and let time freeze in this position. But when Eddie blinks and more tears roll down his face, when Eddie has to bite on his lower lip to suppress the sobs shaking his body, Richie knows that he has to ask.

He steels himself inside, taking a long breath. “Eddie, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t want to leave you, Eddie. I swear that I didn’t.”

Eddie nods, small enough that he can only feel it. “I know,” is all Eddie can say without his voice breaking.

Richie swallows thickly, and in a quieter voice, Richie asks, “How long has it been?”

Eddie sobs, shaking his head as he pulls away from Richie. He closes his eyes, turning away from Richie to sit down on the ground with his head in his hands. For a long time, the only sound between them are Eddie’s shaky breaths, the sobs that he fails to hold in. Every one of them strikes Richie like a shock.

It’s not the first time that he’s seen Eddie cry, but it’s the first time that he’s been the cause of it.

Eddie takes a shuddering breath, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater. Looking back at Richie, Eddie whispers, “It’s been five years, Richie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for flashbacks of homophobia (towards Richie in Derry), homophobic language (Bowers calls Richie a "cock-sucker"), internalised homophobia (Richie's time in Derry before he accepted his sexuality), bullying (because of who Bowers is as a person, and also because of graffiti on the walls of the girl's bathroom about Richie) and implied Al Marsh abusing Bev back in Derry.
> 
> sidenote: if you're still here, thank you for reading! i'm sorry that the chapters are long. i know that some people prefer shorter chapters but i've always planned this fic with 5 chapters in mind and this was the only way to cut the story that made sense to me. :\
> 
> and as always, thank you S for reading through this for me


	3. 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie begins to suspect that not everything is as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW in the end notes. I've bumped up the rating for this fic and also updated the tags accordingly :^)

_Open up begin again  
_ _Let’s go down the waterfall  
_ _Think about the good times and never look back  
_ _Never look back_

_What would I do?_  
_What would I do?  
_ _If I did not have you?_

_(I Might Be Wrong, Radiohead)_

The kitchen hasn’t changed much since the last time that Richie was here.

Sure, there’s a new crack on the tile near the sink, and the edge of the island has chipped off slightly. Richie doesn’t know for sure if there are missing plates or cups since he’s never been one to keep an inventory, but even he can tell that there are new utensils in the drawers. There’s a new mixer too, which probably means that in the time that Richie was gone, Eddie continued baking.

It’s also another marker of Richie’s absence, using a mixer to help him when his arms got tired instead of asking Richie to do it for him. There’s a pang in his chest that’s like a drop of ink in clear water, spreading its dark colour slowly but surely.

They’re both pressed together under a thick, fluffy blanket, sitting on the floor of their kitchen with their backs against the island. The thick air between them is occasionally punctured by one of Eddie’s wet sniffles, or a gulp from either of them when they take a long sip of their drinks from the mug between their hands. Eddie’s having ginger tea, while Richie sticks with black coffee.

Although Eddie’s ginger tea is a new thing, Richie is glad that the coffee machine is still the same one from five years ago. At least some things remain the way that they were.

Richie risks a glance at Eddie, whose head is resting against Richie’s shoulder. His eyes are puffy from crying, and his nose is red from rubbing. He looks the most distraught that Richie has ever seen him, even more than the time he cried at the barrens. The thought that he did this to Eddie is unbearable. Even if it wasn’t something that he could control, directly or not, he was still the reason that Eddie cried. The helplessness he felt while holding onto Eddie at the barrens earlier, being unable to ease Eddie’s pain, still weighs heavily on his mind.

Richie tilts his head until it finds a place on Eddie’s. Eddie looks up, sniffling again with questioning red eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Richie says again.

“Why are you apologising? It wasn’t your fault.” Eddie shakes his head gently, closing his eyes.

“Uhh, yeah. It kinda is.”

“No, it isn’t. Stop it, Richie. It wasn’t your fault, you shouldn’t be apologising to me.”

They remain quiet for a few seconds. Richie twiddles with the mug between his palms, passing it back and forth. He watches the way the surface of the black liquid sloshes inside the white circle, thinking about the day before when he was talking to Bev with coffee and cigarettes for breakfast. It feels like it was ages ago— and it was. More than seven years ago, in dreamspace time. But just two days ago in the real world. How the fuck does time even work here?

“Well, you crying is my fault, at least.” Richie mutters more to himself than to Eddie. Eddie looks up again with furrowed brows and parted lips.

“No, Richie. It really isn’t.” Eddie says. There is strong conviction in his voice, and it surprises Richie for how Eddie’s voice wavers when he speaks. “I just—” a long sigh, “I didn’t know if you were coming back. And that frightened me.”

“Eddie..”

“No, let me finish first. I waited— _god_ , I waited five years to tell you. I was so scared that you left and weren’t coming back. At first I thought that maybe you disappeared somewhere because— I don’t know, maybe it was part of the rules of dreamspace— and I convinced myself that you were lost somewhere. But then later on I.. I started thinking that maybe— you weren’t lost. Maybe you just didn’t want to come back. Maybe you realised that I was boring and naggy and that maybe— you realised that you hated me. And I couldn’t blame you because who would like to spend time with _Eddie Kaspbrak_ , right?

“But it still sucked that most of the places we have here were places that we created together. Recreated. Whatever. And I had to see your ghost all around, and I kept wondering if you were going to return. And then one day you just.. Showed up. Just like I always hoped you would. I couldn’t stop crying because you came back, and it was all I ever wanted. I was so lonely in here, Richie.”

Richie puts his mug on the floor next to him, peeling himself away from Eddie and prying Eddie’s mug out of his hands so he can hold Eddie’s smaller hands in his. Eddie looks mildly confused, but he lets Richie move him until they’re face to face, holding eye contact. It’s important to Richie that Eddie knows how Richie feels, and what he thinks at this moment. If the eyes are the windows into the human soul, then Richie wants Eddie to look deep into his soul.

“Eddie,” Richie says seriously. There’s no hint of a smile on his face, no teasing lilt in his voice. “I want you to know that if there is ever a world where Richard Tozier doesn’t want to come back to Edward Kaspbrak, then— no, scratch that. That would be an imposter. Because there is no way that any version of me— _any_ version— wouldn’t want to be with Eddie Kaspbrak. No way. Zilch. Nada. Not a damn chance, okay? In every possible world, in every possible universe.”

Eddie’s wide eyes grow bigger, cheeks turning pink. Despite the fast pulse in Eddie’s wrist, he’s as still as a statue, looking at Richie like Richie is the only thing keeping him alive.

“I’m not gonna leave you alone, Eddie. Not unless you tell me to fuck off.” Richie frowns, “You’re not gonna do that, right?”

Eddie’s eyes are welling up with tears, and his lips are trembling even if they’re pursed together.

“Oh shit, are you going to cry? Please don’t cry.”

And because this is Richie’s life, Eddie promptly bursts into a fresh wave of tears.

“Oh my god,” Richie’s bringing his hands around Eddie’s cheeks, using his thumbs to wipe away the tears rolling down Eddie’s face. “Please don’t cry. I didn’t tell you that to make you cry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Stop telling me what to do, asshole.”

“What? What am I telling you to do?”

“Stop crying.” Eddie sobs, “You can’t just _tell_ someone to stop crying. That’s the worst thing to say when someone’s crying.”

“Okay! Shit. What am I supposed to say? I don’t know what else to say.”

“What the hell. Just shut up and hold me.”

“Oh my god. You are so bossy even when you’re crying your seventy-percent of body water out of your eyes.” Richie says, pulling Eddie to his chest. Eddie makes a noise of protest in his throat, which dies out the second his face touches Richie’s shirt, made wet by Eddie’s first round of tears.

There is a very nice moment of tranquility between them, with Eddie listening to Richie’s steady (albeit fast) heartbeat and Richie listening to the soft rattling sound in Eddie’s chest when he breathes. But that moment is broken when Eddie hisses, “And are you fucking kidding me? Asking me if I want you to fuck off? After everything I just said? No. What the hell, Richie? I’m not gonna tell you to fuck off.”

“Okay. Yeah, I just needed to check. Assumption makes an ass out of you and I, right?”

Despite Eddie’s very wet face, his expression is as dry as it comes.

“That’s ‘assume makes an ass out of you and me’, idiot.”

“It’s basically the same thing.”

Eddie rolls his eyes fondly. It’s still glistening with unshed tears but there’s so much happiness in them, too. If the eyes truly are the windows to the human soul, then Richie knows that Eddie’s is the most beautiful that he’s ever seen. Will ever see.

Distantly, he wonders what Eddie sees in his eyes— if it’s the same thing that Richie sees in his. But that’s not important to think about now.

“And I’m not— _sad_. I’m not hurt by what you said, alright? I’m just.. overwhelmed.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to me before. Thank you, Richie.” Eddie says quietly into Richie’s shirt, voice slightly muffled.

“Oh. Well, yeah. I needed to tell you. So it’s not like a problem or anything. But, it is true. I’m not going anywhere, Eds. And if I did, I’ll always come back to find you. You’re fun, you’re caring, you’re always up to do some crazy shit and most importantly: you _tolerate_ my shit. That’s rare as fuck, Eds. I’m not leaving you anytime soon. You’re the best person that I’ve ever known. The best of the best.”

Eddie looks away with a flushed face. “I thought Stan and Bev were the best people you’ve ever known?” he asks slowly, deflecting, trying to hide how flustered he is.

“Yeah, but they’re Stan and Bev. It’s different. They don’t count.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. It’s _Stan and Bev_. They’re like, my best friends. Sure. But..”

_You’re Eddie Kaspbrak._

Richie pauses in mid-sentence, body going stiff as he realises what his next words were going to be. It’s not like it’s anything new, Eddie has always been special to Richie. Eddie is most likely Richie’s soulmate, for crying out loud. Of course Eddie’s always going to be special.

But.. this is different. It doesn’t feel like a simple soulmate connection anymore. Richie doesn’t get embarrassed over platonic relationships. He’s not known for having a trash mouth just to have thin fucking skin. But with the way that Eddie’s eyes study his, he can’t just _say_ that anymore. It feels too much, but simultaneously not enough.

“You’re my friend, Eds.”

Eddie shoves at Richie’s chest lightly, “What is that supposed to mean? Am I on a lower rank of friendship than Stan and Bev? Is that why it’s different?”

“No,” Richie says hurriedly, starting to panic. Eddie’s eyes flit up, meeting Richie’s with a playful glint.

“I know,” Eddie says, “I was just pulling your leg.”

“What the fuck,” Richie says, “We’re supposed to be in the middle of a very serious and very emotional moment here.”

“We are. But I couldn’t resist it. You’re so easy to tease when you try to get serious and shit, you know?”

“No, the fuck I don’t.” Richie huffs, “See if I ever have another one of these emotional and serious talks with you anymore.”

Eddie laughs, still hiccuping slightly from the earlier crying. When he wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater, peeking at Richie under long eyelashes, Richie wonders if Eddie has always looked so good even when he’s crying.

“There’s something else that I wanted to tell you, too.”

“Oh, no,” Richie says sarcastically, “Are we doing this in serious mood too?”

“Yes,” Eddie says seriously, pulling away from Richie limply. Eddie hangs his head, looking at his hands as he continues, “I.. I need to tell you this, Richie. It’s been a long time coming, and I think that I’ve always suspected or known about it on some level. But I just— never wanted to admit it. But I have to— I _need_ to.”

Richie’s blood runs cold. It’s the way that Eddie says it that makes him scared. The weight of each word in the sentence, the way that Eddie refuses to look his way— it all makes him think that whatever Eddie wants to say next, it will change things between them. Richie doesn’t know if he can take the way that trepidation bloats his guts, waiting to explode.

Then his gaze flickers up to meet Richie’s. Despite being red rimmed and slightly swollen, he looks fiercely determined, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat. Richie swallows thickly, suddenly feeling the tension in the air become palpable.

There aren’t many instances that Richie can remember seeing Eddie look like this, but he definitely doesn’t remember being as nervous as he is now when he’s watching Eddie inhale deeply. He definitely doesn’t remember wrecking his brain on what Eddie’s next words would be the way he is now. And he definitely doesn’t remember hoping that Eddie would say something, the way that he is now.

Say something? Say what?

That Eddie would make Richie promise to stay here? That Eddie would ask Richie not to leave him alone again? There’s something about these lines of thought that feels strangely dangerous to Richie. They don’t hit the mark, but they’re circling around it, like predators waiting for the right moment to strike.

Eddie sighs slowly, still maintaining eye contact with Richie with defiance burning in his eyes. “I’m bisexual,” he announces at last, “I think.”

Distantly, Richie thinks of all the times that he pushed Eddie on the trolley in their little mini mart, watching the way that the light bounced off Eddie’s skin. He thinks of the way that Eddie teared up the first time that he stepped into the Kenduskeag, gripping onto Richie’s sweaty palms as if he wanted to crush his hands. He thinks of the way that Eddie applied the aloe vera gel on his peeling skin, butterfly touches fluttering all over his body.

He thinks of the way that his heart beat harder, faster. He thinks of the way that he forced himself to look away, because it was weird how hot his face was getting, knowing that Eddie was looking at him. He thinks of the way that he pressed his back further into Eddie’s touch, wanting to feel Eddie’s hands more strongly against his skin.

And then he thinks of the way that Eddie’s words crush him in disappointment.

Roses are red, violets are blue, Eddie is bisexual, but doesn’t like him like that.

“Uh,” Richie says dumbly.

Eddie’s eyes narrow defensively, chest rising like he’s anticipating something insensitive from Richie.

“Oh. You’re bisexual. That’s—” Richie continues, his brain finally kicking in, “Wow.”

“That’s _wow_?”

“I mean— what I wanted to say was.” Richie hesitates, choosing his words wisely so that his disappointment doesn’t show, “Thanks for telling me, Eddie. I don’t— it’s not easy to come out. And, it means a lot to me that you trust me enough to tell me.”

Eddie nods to himself, his posture deflating as he speaks. “Yeah. I mean, this was something else I thought about a lot in the time that you were gone. Just, trying to work things out with myself. I wasn’t— I never let myself try and think about boys before. It was weird for me, but a nice weird. Girls are fine, they are soft and nice. But I guess that.. I don’t know. Boys can be soft and nice, too.”

And because Richie’s mouth runs a thousand miles faster than the filter on it can, Richie’s blabbering, “Yeah, of course they are. There are some of the softest and nicest boys out there. I mean, none that I personally know of. But I’m assuming that there are soft and nice boys that’ll suit you well, Eds. Or girls. But someone, I guess. And that’ll be good for you, Eddie. You deserve to be happy.”

Eddie shoots him a weird look, frown deepening and _wow_ , Eddie’s frown managed to get even more angry in the time that Richie was gone. That was _not_ a frown that just anyone could do. “What the hell are you talking about, Richie?”

“I’m just— _glad_. I’m happy for you, Eddie. I’m glad you told me, too. I think that I— you can always let me know if you need anything, yeah? I mean, I want to support you in any way that I can.”

“Well.. thanks a lot, Richie. It means a lot to me that you’re so supportive of this. Me coming out.”

“Yeah. It’s not going to change anything between us. I promise, Eds.”

Eddie side glances at Richie in that weird way again, as if Richie was missing something painfully obvious. But then Eddie rolls his eyes and scoots closer to Richie, snuggling himself into Richie’s chest like a fucking cat. Eddie takes one shuddering breath as he closes his eyes contentedly, unable to hide the smile on his lips the way he used to with how short his fringe is now. Richie recalls the days— years ago— when Eddie was doing the same thing. His hair had obstructed Richie’s view of his face then, but the new haircut that Eddie has— much shorter than before— allows him to see his face clearly now. It feels like another triumph he never knew he wanted.

Then, as Eddie’s fingers crawl across Richie’s arm to intertwine their fingers together, the heat from their connected palms travels up Richie’s arm in a series of waves.

When the first wave reaches Richie’s head, it goes, _I like Eddie._

When the second wave reaches Richie’s head, it says, _I think I really like Eddie._

When the final wave reaches Richie’s head, it screams, _Oh my god, I really like Eddie._

_Oh my god, I really like Eddie._

_Really like Eddie._

_I really like Eddie._

He’s in his bed, staring blankly at fake Jeff when he thinks, _I really like Eddie._ He’s sitting in their kitchen, watching Eddie flip the pan expertly with the flick of his wrist, sending the pancake upward and then catching it in his pan, when he thinks, _I really like Eddie_. He’s lying in Eddie’s bed, with their legs tangled together and heads bumping into each other’s, trying to read a new webcomic when the smell of Eddie’s shampoo wafts over to Richie, and Richie takes a deeper breath, thinking, _I really fucking like Eddie._

 _I like the way he smiles. I like the way he kicks me. I like the way he curses under his breath when he’s chopping onions. I like the way his hair smells, like something clean with a little sweat and something so indescribably_ Eddie _._

_I like Eddie. I really, really like him._

It’s no wonder that his first reaction to Eddie’s words were disappointment. He didn’t know it then, but boy does he know it _now_ : he was secretly hoping for Eddie to confess to him.

Of course, Eddie coming out to him is a big deal for Richie. Richie is happy for Eddie, especially after Eddie had spent so many years in the closet, it couldn’t have been easy for Eddie to tell Richie about it. When Richie confided in Eddie, Eddie had been the fourth person to know about it. Richie is the first person to know about Eddie’s sexuality. Eddie told Richie first. It’s a big fucking deal for Eddie, and Richie is so goddamn proud and in awe of Eddie’s courage.

But at the same time, Richie doesn’t know how to justify the way he feels. Crushed, upset, disappointed. It’s pretty lame if you ask him, but he still couldn’t help but hope that Eddie was going to confess, anyway.

Days pass in this daze and truth be told, Richie knows that he’s in a kind of funk, oscillating between wanting to shout to the world about his newfound feelings, and wanting to cry in the corner of his room because Eddie was so close to him yet so far away from his reach.

The thing is this: Richie had known that he was gay, and he’d accepted it a long time ago. It wasn’t an easy journey, and it involved many tears on his end, hugs and kisses from Bev, and hugs from _Stan_ as well. Richie is gay. The sky is blue. Life goes on.

Finding out that Eddie is bisexual, on the other hand, made him feel a lot of things. Mostly, it made him feel despair. Eddie liked guys and girls, but Eddie doesn’t like him the way that Richie likes Eddie. Because if Eddie likes Richie the way that Richie likes Eddie, Eddie would have said something already. But he didn’t. So that means that Eddie likes boys too, but he doesn’t like Richie per se. And that fucking blows.

So what if they’re naturally touchy-feely with each other? That’s the way that they’ve always been, and Richie meant what he said when he promised Eddie that nothing was gonna change between them. He’s not going to let the way that he wants to hug Eddie out of the blue, to nuzzle Eddie with his cheek, to plant a kiss on Eddie’s forehead before they go to sleep, change anything.

But it doesn’t help his resolve when Eddie gets even _more_ touchy-feely after that day. Eddie was always touching him in some way, and that's okay because Richie had been doing the same thing too. But things are different now, because Eddie liked boys too but he doesn’t like Richie. So _excuse_ Richie for flinching every time Eddie tries crawling into his lap, for trying to pull away discreetly from Eddie’s vice grip when they take a nap in the winter afternoons.

But nothing about Richie is ever discreet. Not to anyone, definitely not to Bev, Ben or Stan and least of all: Eddie.

They’re in the barrens a few weeks after that day. The water in the Kenduskeag is still frozen, and Eddie really wants to try some bastardised version of what he calls “ice skating”, which means to say that Eddie wants to slide across the ice in his _shoes_ before it melts away.

The sun is beating down on them despite the biting cold winds that blow in their faces, urging them back to their rooms. Eddie brightens when he sees that the water is still frozen solid, grabbing Richie’s hand and running towards the ice without care.

“Woohoooo!” Eddie screams loudly, skidding across the ice with Richie next to him. He’s holding his arms over his head, which means that the hand holding Richie’s is up too.

“Holy shit.” Richie gasps once they start slowing down.

“Oh my god, that was so fun.” Eddie laughs. There’s a small cloud from Eddie’s breath that dissipates quickly. Richie is about to say something when Eddie takes off again, running forward and then straightening his legs, sliding across the ice like a toothpick. Richie closes his mouth, smiling at Eddie’s back.

Towards the middle, Eddie stumbles on a crack in the ice and flails his arms as he falls sideways, skidding across the ice.

“Eddie!” Richie shouts worriedly, running off after Eddie. When he reaches Eddie, he finds Eddie lying on the ice, giggling to himself. Noticing Richie, Eddie stops laughing, smiling warmly at Richie instead. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m okay. Didn’t break anything, so I guess I’m good.”

“Eddie, that looked like a hell of a fall. Are you sure that you’re not—”

“It’s cute.” Eddie cuts him off, still smiling that private smile of his, the one Richie doesn’t understand. “The way that you’re fussing over me. I like it. It does feel like our roles are switched, though. You’re usually the stupid one.”

Richie blinks, stupefied.

“Guess stupid is contagious afterall.” Eddie chuckles to himself. He pats the ice next to him, beckoning Richie with the quick tilt of his chin.

Richie knows that he should say something. It doesn’t have to be something witty, just _something_. But he sits down quietly, slowly lowering his body until he’s lying on the ice next to Eddie. Eddie lolls his head over, fully facing Richie now.

“Hey.”

Eddie is so close that Richie can see his eyelashes, he can see the freckles on his tanned skin. And when Eddie’s eyes look into his, Richie’s brain sizzles in spite of the cold.

“Hey Kaspbrak,” Richie says on autopilot, “It’s me, Richie Tozier. We were in homeroom together, remember? It’s been a long time since we graduated from high school, huh? Crazy how time flies. You know, I was wondering when you’d be free? Would you like to catch up over a cup of coffee?”

Eddie’s smile falls off his face, “Are you seriously doing the Insurance Agent right now?”

“Yep,” Richie says nonchalantly, another automatic response. Eddie sighs, put off.

“You are such a turd.” Eddie comments. Richie hums in agreement, mind still wandering somewhere else. Eddie side glances at Richie before sighing softly.

“You know, the first time that I did this with Mike, he fell down a lot too. I didn’t, of course. Because I was too busy being worried about all the fucking things that could happen to me: what if the ice broke and we fell in and froze to death? What if I landed wrongly and broke something? What if I hit my head?

“But then Mike just held onto me and told me that life was more than living carefully. So, even though he fell down a lot more than me, he was enjoying himself a lot more than me too. I was so fucking envious of him. But I think.. I think I get it now. Life.. it’s all about taking risks that will make you happy.”

Hearing Mike’s name again stirs something in Richie. His lips twitch, and it takes a lot of willpower from Richie not to frown at the thought of Eddie being in the exact same spot with some other guy he hasn’t met before. Richie feels like wherever he goes, he’s living in Mike’s shadow. And that makes him feel like he’s always going to be in second place for everything in Eddie’s eyes.

It fucking sucks.

Richie doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t replied to Eddie’s comment until Eddie is speaking again, changing the topic. “Kinda feels like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, doesn’t it?”

This time, it’s easier for Richie to reply. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s that movie with Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet. The one where they broke up and Jim Carrey tries to erase his memories of her.” Eddie says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. When he notices the lack of understanding in Richie’s eyes, his expression falls. “Really, Richie? You haven’t watched it before?”

“No? Is it popular or something?”

“Okay, we are totally watching it together one day. How have you lived your life without watching it even once?”

“Eddie, you literally didn’t even watch Star Trek until we met.”

“And that was years ago, it doesn’t count anymore.”

Richie snorts, lightly kicking Eddie’s feet, which Eddie retaliates to swiftly.

There are birds chirping as they fly by. It’s the only thing that Richie and Eddie hear for minutes. They’re close enough to feel each other’s warm breath fan against their faces, for Richie to see the brown specks in Eddie’s pupils. Eddie can probably see the place on his nose where it’s crooked.

Without warning, Eddie reaches a hand out to brush away the stray curls that fall into Richie’s eyes, sandwiched between his face and his glasses.

“Where are you at now?” Eddie murmurs, smile melting away into a mellow expression. Richie lets Eddie’s fingertips brush against his eyelids, closing them as they do.

“With you.”

Eddie scoffs. His fingers slide away from Richie’s hair. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bad liar?”

“Yeah, Stan.”

“Well, he’s not lying. You’re really awful at lying, you know that? Your face gets all stiff and you look constipated.”

Richie shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe I _am_ constipated.”

“No, you’re not. How can you ever be constipated when you talk so much shit all the time?”

“Maybe I _am_ constipated, which is why I’m always talking shit. If it doesn’t come out from the back, it’s gonna come out from somewhere else.”

Eddie grimaces, slapping Richie’s arm. “That’s so disgusting.”

“You started it.”

“No, you did.”

“No, _you_ did.”

Eddie giggles, pushing Richie’s head back with his index finger. Richie lets his head move along, pliant. “Whatever. You continued arguing with me, anyway. You can’t say shit.”

Richie smiles at Eddie, “Yeah, I guess I did. But you still started it anyway.”

“Idiot.” Eddie murmurs, still staring at him with that indecipherable smile of his. A few seconds later, Eddie asks in a gentle whisper, “Where are you really at, Richie? What’s going on in that big head of yours?”

It takes a moment for Richie to admit in a low voice, “You’ve been really happy lately.”

Eddie cocks an eyebrow, “Uhhuh. You came back. Of course I’m happy.”

A small smile plays on Richie’s lips, thinking about how he makes Eddie happy, makes him happy. It’s a virtuous cycle: he makes Eddie happy, and Eddie makes him happy. Eddie makes him happy because he likes Eddie.

Richie wants to think that if the teenage-him were able to see where he is now, he’d be proud and excited to grow up. The thought that he is somewhere a younger version of himself would like to be makes him realise that, although it doesn’t feel like much has changed from day to day, an accumulation of small things everyday makes a big change in the grand scheme of things. He is here, with Eddie— the person he likes, his soulmate. He would never have allowed himself to imagine that something like this could happen.

When Richie looks back to Eddie, he finds Eddie already staring at him.

If the eyes were really windows into the human soul.. then Eddie’s is the most beautiful there is.

He’s perfect.

All the emotions building inside Richie for the last couple of weeks finally spill over the edge. There is so much hopelessness in trying to love someone quietly, especially when you know that you were made to be with this person for the rest of your life. There is so much resignation in knowing that friends is all you can ever hope to be, because the person you love doesn’t love you back. There is so much pain when he looks into Eddie’s eyes and sees his own reflection, of how he looks at Eddie like he’s the only person in the world.

To be fair, Eddie _is_ the only other person in dreamspace, but it doesn’t fucking matter. Eddie could be lost in the crowd in downtown Manhattan and Richie would still be able to pick him out in the blink of an eye. Because there is no one else like Eddie for Richie, and all Richie wants is to be _someone_ to Eddie.

“I like you,” Richie blurts out, feeling the words choke him on their way out.

Eddie freezes next to him, his smile falls off his face completely. Richie’s throat closes up when Eddie’s hand goes limp in his, falling away slowly.

“What?” Eddie asks stiffly.

There’s no question that Eddie heard him the first time. It’s not the ‘ _what?’_ people ask when they’re genuinely sorry for missing something. It’s the ‘ _what?_ ’ people ask when they don’t want to believe what they’ve heard.

Eddie heard him, Richie fucked up. There’s no going back to what they had before. There’s only trying to salvage what’s left of their friendship.

_“Life.. it’s all about taking risks that will make you happy.”_

Isn’t that right?

“I think I really like you, Eddie.” Richie murmurs in a shaky breath. He’s looking down at the ice between them, not daring to hold Eddie’s gaze. “I— really like you, Eds. And it’s driving me crazy. The way you look at me sometimes, and the way you touch me. I really like you. I just want to make you laugh every day. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. I like you so much. It makes me want to die thinking about how much I like you.”

Richie sneaks a peek at Eddie, lying rigidly next to him, staring intently at Richie. There’s no hint of what Eddie is thinking at all. His eyes are guarded, and his face is perfectly blank. The only give away is the way that Eddie’s jaw is locked, how level his breathing is— almost measured. Richie feels so fucking naked, pouring his soul to Eddie, and Eddie looks unbothered by it. It breaks something in Richie.

“Fuck,” Richie says in a choked voice, sneaking a hand under his glasses to wipe away the lone tear rolling down, “I’ve probably ruined things for us, haven’t I? I’m sorry. I didn’t really want to tell you but I just—”

“What the fuck?”

“Huh?” Richie glances back, chuckling nervously. With how tight his voice is, all his words come out in a high pitched jumble. “Geez, Eddie. If you don’t like me back, just say so. I mean, I can understand if you don’t feel the same way—”

“I mean. What the fuck?” Eddie’s pushing himself up, narrowing his eyes dangerously at Richie. He looks _furious_. “Haven’t we been— then what the hell have we been doing for the past few weeks?!”

“Huh?” Richie looks up now, slightly alarmed, “What do you mean ‘what have we been doing’?”

“I mean, _what the fuck have we been doing_ ,” Eddie grits his teeth, seething, “If we aren’t dating?!”

Richie scrambles up, “What?!”

“What the fuck. Fucking hell, Richie. Did you— then what— oh my _god_. Was that not a confession weeks ago?!”

“A _what_ and a _when_?!”

“What the hell did you mean that day? When you were telling me about how you’d always come back to me?”

“That was me telling you that I’d never leave you willingly, _obviously_! Wait— you thought that it was a confession? You thought that was a _confession_?!”

Eddie’s cheeks colour with shame, he looks down with his eyebrows drawn in an angry line. “How the hell was I supposed to know that it wasn’t?!”

“Because I never explicitly said the words ‘I like you’?!”

“You don’t always need to say that to express your feelings, idiot! There are lots of way to say ‘I like you’ without actually saying it.”

“Yeah, but I’m confessing _now_ aren’t I? I like you, Eddie! I really fucking like you!”

“Oh my god, how the hell. You’re so stupid, did you know that? I’m so— _angry_ at you! Holy fuck. How did you not know that we’re dating?”

“We touch all the time anyway. It wasn’t that different from before!”

“Yeah, but I was _in your lap_ , multiple times, Richie! Did you not get the message?”

“No?! I mean— I kinda wanted it to be like that but I wasn’t gonna take advantage of your comfort levels around me, Eds. Besides, why are we still yelling anyway?”

“Cause I’m mad at you!” Eddie says, huffing loudly. “Is this why you’ve been so distant for the past few weeks? What? Were you having some kind of crisis? When you could have just _reciprocated_ my feelings?”

“Yes, actually,” Richie says, more collected now, “I was having a very real crisis because I realised that I liked you more than I should as a friend. More than a best friend. Okay? And you were making it difficult for me to act normally when you practically draped yourself all over me! Do you know how many boners I popped? I didn’t even— I had to bathe in _cold water_ , Eddie. During winter! That’s cruel as hell. You’re _killing_ me here, Eddie.”

Eddie pauses. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, bashfully flickering his gaze to Richie and his hands. “You popped boners?”

“Yeah. Eddie, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re the sexiest person that I’ve ever seen. It should be illegal to be as hot as you are. I felt like I was going through my teens again, getting hard whenever my dick rubs against anything that gives some friction including my own fucking underwear. It’s embarrassing and lowkey pathetic— being held hostage by my own dick.”

Eddie’s face, already red with the cold, flushes even redder in embarrassment. After a beat, he asks, “Did you ever..?”

“What? Get off?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Eds, _no_. I wanted to, but I couldn’t do that to you, okay? I’m not gonna— _masturbate_ to my friend.”

“Oh.” Eddie says, averting his gaze downwards. After a moment, Eddie glances up again, “What about your boyfriend?”

“What boyfriend? I don’t have a— oh.” Richie says. Looking at Eddie, he can feel his face heating up with embarrassment as well. He’s embarrassed and nervous but mostly excited by what Eddie is trying to tell him. “ _Oh_. Well, yeah. If I had a boyfriend, I guess I could. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Totally not assuming anything at all.”

Eddie stares very blatantly at Richie’s lips before his own lips quirk upwards, “Well, hypothetically speaking, I guess we can arrange for that to happen.”

And because Richie is Richie, he says, “So, hypothetically speaking, who would this hypothetical boyfriend—”

“Richie,” Eddie sighs, long and suffering, “Just shut up and kiss me, okay?”

“Yeah, we can totally arrange for that to happen. Hypothetically.”

Eddie sighs again. “I gotta ask: are you gonna pop a boner if we kiss right now?”

“Bitch I might.” Richie exhales. Their faces are close enough that their noses bump together. Richie thinks he might go cross-eyed trying to look at Eddie from this close.

“Good,” Eddie says. Then he leans in and closes the gap.

It’s an awkward kiss because their noses are still bumping into each other’s, and Richie’s glasses make it difficult for them to move closer. Not that Richie is complaining, anyway. He likes it like this. It feels raw but sincere, like Eddie really wants this as much as Richie does.

When they pull away, the first thing that Eddie does is to snatch Richie’s glasses away, folding it into his pocket.

“I don’t think that you’ll be needing this,” Eddie says. Richie nods reverently.

“Mayhaps not. Mayhaps not.”

“Are you going to keep doing your Voices when I’m trying to have a moment with my boyfriend?” Eddie hisses.

“Are we still talking about the hypothetical boyfriend here? Or are we talking about, like, a real boyfriend?”

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

And then they’re kissing again, Richie diving down to pull Eddie closer to him. Eddie’s arms wrap around Richie’s neck, hands grazing the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. Richie groans into the kiss, just in time for Eddie’s tongue to slip inside. It’s sloppy and lacking in technique, more desperation and curiosity than anything else, but Richie doesn’t care. And besides, he likes the thought that Eddie is inexperienced at this. It’s a selfish thing to want, but Richie’s never claimed to be selfless, much less when it comes to Eddie.

Eventually, Eddie pulls himself away. He’s gasping wildly, lips swollen red from where Richie has bitten it. There’s a thin trail of saliva between their mouths that Richie cuts away with his tongue.

Richie’s heart is pumping madly in his body. Loud _lub-dub, lub-dub_ echoes in his ears, along with all the soft sounds Eddie was making seconds ago.

“Was that okay?”

“Eds, baby,” Richie wheezes. He has no idea where ‘ _baby’_ came from, but he loves the way it rolls off his tongue. From the way that Eddie flinches in surprise, he thinks he’s not the only one. “That was _very_ okay. If that wasn't okay, then I don’t want okay.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, “So what about that arrangement that we were talking about earlier?”

“You mean the hypothetical scenario where we are both, hypothetically speaking, hypothetical boyfriends?”

“I hate you so much right now.”

“I thought you liked me?”

“Shut the fuck up, dickwad.”

“Make me.” Richie says, and Eddie’s eyes flashing is all the warning he gets before he’s being pulled into another kiss. Richie doesn’t mind. He’s gonna kiss the fuck out of Eddie at every possible chance.

As it turns out, Richie does indeed kiss the fuck out of Eddie at every possible chance.

A kiss on the forehead in the morning before breakfast, a chaste kiss when they’re cuddling in the hammock by the Kenduskeag, a proper kiss when they’re lying next to each other on someone’s bed, holding hands like teenagers and giggling when they break away, slightly breathless and cross-eyed.

It takes Eddie a while to get used to the surprise kisses that Richie plants on him when they’re together. It takes Eddie longer to get used to the change in the way that they touch. Sure, Eddie’s been a little more handsy for the past few weeks, but with all their feelings out in the open now, it makes Eddie skittish. Richie thinks that it may be because although Eddie had been the one initiating most of their touches before, he’s never experienced how intentional Richie’s touches can be.

A hand on the back is no longer something light anymore, it’s a grounding touch that lingers much longer than it used to. Leaning against Eddie isn’t something he restrains himself from doing anymore, and he allows himself to rest his head on top of Eddie’s, sometimes tucking Eddie’s head under his chin when they’re snuggling in bed. All of this takes Eddie by surprise because he’s never known Richie to crave so much contact before, but Eddie always welcomes his touch with a gentle peck to the lips, or a simple smile that never fails to melt Richie’s heart every single time.

The kisses that Richie really likes, though, are the sneaky ones he gets away with.

“Eat it, asshole,” Eddie shrieks, pressing mercilessly on the console with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. If there’s one thing that Eddie has definitely gotten better at in the last 5 years, it’s fucking Mario Kart. Not that Eddie was _bad_ to begin with, but Richie was usually the one winning most of their games. Now? Oh, how the tables have turned.

Richie peeps at Eddie, who’s still grinning maniacally at the screen in Richie’s room. Even if he’s losing in Mario Kart now, pride blooms in his chest when he sees how _alive_ Eddie is. The boy who was so uptight about everything was now growing into his own person, and Richie is so fucking proud of how far Eddie has come since then.

He knows that he shouldn’t do it now because Eddie will get pissed as hell later. Still, he can’t help himself. With a barely concealed smile, Richie leans over to press a kiss to Eddie’s lips. Eddie draws back slightly in surprise before he smiles and leans into the kiss, deepening it. The console falls out of Eddie’s hands when he brings them up to cup Richie’s chin, letting his fingertips graze the growing stubble along Richie’s jaw.

When they move away from each other, Richie sees happiness sparkling in Eddie’s eyes and he thinks it’s the most goddamn beautiful thing he’ll ever get to see in his fucking lifetime.

Suddenly, the speakers blast with the sound of someone finishing the race. Eddie turns to the screen, seeing Richie’s Toad drive past the finish line, gesturing in victory. His gaze moves slowly to Richie’s hand, still on the console, before looking back at Richie with an unimpressed look.

“You are such a turd,” Eddie deadpans, “You totally did that on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Richie says, leaning back against the bed, feigning an innocent smile, “I just decided to kiss my beautiful, amazing boyfriend.”

“In the middle of a game he was dominating by one lap?”

“What? Like it’s a crime? All’s fair in love and war, baby. And Mario Kart?” Richie waves his console around, “Is war.”

“Fuck you.” Eddie says, hitting Richie’s arm. “Just for that, we’re having Kale for dinner.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been planning to have Kale for dinner for _days_.”

“Yeah, because _someone_ has been constipated. Maybe this will finally give you the fibre you need to shit through the proper channel.”

It isn’t even sweet talk, but _god_ does Richie swoon on the inside. Without thinking about it, Richie picks up Eddie’s hand, pressing his lips against the back of his hand. When he opens his eyes, Eddie is red-faced with his lips parted in surprise.

It’s one of Richie’s favourite looks on Eddie, something he only discovered recently.

Eddie swallows thickly, pulling his hand away. “By the way,” Eddie says, voice wavering, “I was thinking.”

“You were?”

Eddie shoots Richie a dry look, “Haha, asshole. Shut up. I’m being serious here.” Richie throws his hands up in surrender. Eddie sighs, exasperated. “I was thinking.. we should get a room.”

“Eddie,” Richie snorts, “We _have_ rooms, remember? I mean, where else are we at now?”

When Eddie doesn’t respond, Richie looks up. Eddie looks awkward and uncomfortable, averting his gaze to the side.

“I know that,” Eddie says quietly, “What I meant was..”

“Oh,” Richie says.

Eddie wants a room with Richie. A room, as in a room where couples sleep in together. Where snuggles and cuddles and spooning happens.

“Oh,” Richie says again.

Eddie glances up, “We don’t have to, of course. I’m not— _forcing_ you to. If you’re not comfortable with the idea, it’s fine. We can just—”

“No, no. Eds,” Richie says, grabbing onto Eddie’s flying hands, “No. I mean, yes. I do want it. A room with you. I was just.. It’s something I’ve wanted for a long time, Eddie. You have no freaking idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah,” Richie says, pressing their noses together, “Always wanted to know how loudly you snore at night. If it’s anything like your mom’s—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie hisses, bumping their foreheads together, “You’re such a dickwad. Do you always have to ruin the moment with your Voices or jokes about my mother?”

“I could. But then what kind of Richie Tozier would that be?”

Eddie smiles against Richie’s lips, “Yeah, I guess it’s too bad I liked an idiot like you, huh?”

Richie doesn’t even get to defend himself because Eddie’s kissing him again, and Richie will never turn down an opportunity to kiss Eddie, much less kiss the fuck out of Eddie. So he let’s the argument drop. It’s a dirty trick that Eddie uses to shut Richie up, but then Richie likes it anyway. If this is how Eddie is going to keep Richie quiet, then Richie has absolutely no complaints at all.

They spend the next week discussing what kind of room they’d like to have. It doesn’t happen all at once, but it’s peppered into their conversations about other things. Richie can be mixing batter for Eddie (because that’s not what the mixer is for, apparently) and Eddie will ask about what type of windows he’d like. Eddie will be humming a song under his breath during their strolls along the barrens and Richie will ask about having a TV in their room.

Which explains how, when Eddie is hanging off the edge of the trolley with Richie pushing him on the other end, Richie asks, “Do you think we could have an en suite bathroom in our room?”

Eddie looks up, still laughing from the adrenaline rush of rounding a sharp corner, “An en suite bathroom?” he repeats thoughtfully, “Sure. That sounds like a good idea.”

“Of course it is. It’s my idea, isn’t it?” Eddie levels him a look. “Okay, fine. Don’t admit it. Van Gogh was only appreciated way after his time, anyway.”

“Don’t insult Van Gogh like that. He had talent.”

“Yeah, he _had_ talent. And where’s he now, huh?”

“He’s dead, Richie.” Eddie says, “If he _were_ still alive, he’d have talent.”

“I have talent too,” Richie cries indignantly.

“Being able to slip ‘your mom’ jokes into almost every conversation is not a talent.”

“No, but it should be one.” Richie says, rolling his eyes, “Besides, that wasn’t even what I was gonna say.”

“No? Then what were you gonna say?”

“That loving my Eddie Spaghetti is my talent, obviously. Probably the only talent I have.”

Eddie freezes as his eyes widens minutely. He looks away quickly, hiding his smile behind a closed hand. Richie grins at the side of Eddie’s face, drinking in the cute way he tries to hide his face when he gets shy after being flirted with.

“That’s not my name,” Eddie says at last, still not looking in Richie’s direction.

“Sure it is. Why else would you be blushing like a virgin groom on his wedding night?”

“‘Virgin groom’?” Eddie repeats

“Would you prefer ‘virgin bride’ then?”

“How do you know if I’m a virgin?”

“Well, I wasn’t talking about you specifically. It was a legitimately hypothetical virgin groom I was talking about. But you know what they say..”

“What do they say?”

Richie’s grin turns smug, obviously too pleased with himself. “If the shoe fits.”

Eddie flips Richie off. “Fuck you.” he hisses. Richie laughs loudly, a belly-clutching one that he hasn’t had in a while. Although Eddie is scowling at him, there’s a little upward tug on the corner of his lips as well.

They’re rounding the corner with the potatoes when Eddie reaches out, grabbing a potato in his hand and inspecting it with a keen eye. Richie stops pushing the trolley, leaning against the handle with his chin on his palm.

“Hey,” Eddie says, putting the potato into the trolley and reaching into the basket on the table for another potato, “What kind of curtains do you want to have in our room?”

“Your curtains,” Richie says easily. Eddie looks at Richie, as if taken by surprise by how quickly Richie replied to him.

“My curtains?” Eddie repeats quizzically, tilting his head in confusion, “Why?”

“Because they’re one of the first things I remembered from our first meeting. It’s one of the things I think about before I come back to dreamspace, too.”

When the room is created, the first thing that Richie does is to throw himself onto the bed.

“Holy shit,” Richie says, flapping his arms around like he’s making a snow angel, “This is so fucking comfortable. Eds, get your ass in here.”

Eddie sits down next to Richie, and the bed sinks slowly to the left. “You’re such a dumbass.” Eddie says, running his hand through Richie’s unruly hair.

“Yeah, but I’m your dumbass.”

Eddie’s eyes curve up into crescents, “Yeah, I guess you are.”

Richie leans his head up towards Eddie’s hand, letting his eyelids fall shut. “You are such a genius, Eds. I mean it. This place looks so freaking good. It’s like, way better than I expected.”

The room is pretty spacious compared to their individual rooms. The windows are wide with Eddie’s curtains fluttering in the spring wind. Their bed sits nicely near the middle of the room with two bedside tables on both ends, and the highlight of the room for Richie is definitely the en suite bathroom that’s near the closet. Now he’ll never need to leave his room to go for a pee ever again.

Eddie smiles stiffly, caught between wanting to snicker but not wanting to give Richie the satisfaction of making him laugh so easily. “I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment or an insult. I’m actually scared to ask what you thought it’d look like.”

“You and me both, Eds.” Richie says, hooking one ankle over the other while folding his arms behind his head. He’s staring at the TV mounted onto the wall across their bed, with a small ledge under it to put stuff. What kind of stuff? Richie isn’t sure either. “How’d you even get so good at imagining all these small details, anyway? I didn’t even see you drawing out a floor plan or anything.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to practice and experiment— see what works and what doesn’t.”

Richie’s laughter dies in the air the same moment that Eddie realises what he’s just said. Eddie looks frozen in panic, like he didn’t mean for the words to slip out.

They both know what Eddie’s not saying in here— that in the time that Richie was gone, he’s had a lot of time to do whatever he wanted. By itself, it doesn’t sound too bad. But it’s the fact that Richie left Eddie alone for 5 years that makes it something painful to even skirt around. It’s the fact that Eddie had been alone in dreamspace without knowing if Richie was ever going to come back, that makes this topic such a taboo to even think about.

That Eddie didn’t even know if Richie was coming back. He lived with this thought at the back of his head for 5 years.

“Eddie—”

“Richie,” Eddie says over Richie, fiddling with a loose thread at the bottom hem of his shirt, “It’s okay. I really don’t hold anything against you for that. I don’t want you to feel bad about it anymore.”

“Yeah, but just because you don’t want me to feel bad about it doesn’t mean that I don’t feel bad about it.” Richie says firmly, “I still feel fucking awful about it every time I think about it, okay? It feels— I don’t even know how to describe how fucking shit it makes me feel.”

Richie pinches the bridge of his nose with a pained sigh, shaking his head with his eyes closed. “I mean, you thought I hated you, Eds.” his voice dips, “You thought that I didn’t want to come back to you. That’s not okay with me. I hate that I made you think that way.”

Eddie doesn’t reply immediately, but when he does, it’s barely audible. “Not really.”

Eddie’s voice is so quiet that Richie nearly misses it, and when he realises what Eddie’s said, his heart slows down abruptly, because he isn’t sure if he’s heard correctly.

Or rather, he knows what he heard, but he doesn’t know what it means. And it’s the not knowing that feels like it should scare him.

“What?”

“I mean,” Eddie worries his lip between his teeth, still looking away, “It’s not true— that I thought that you weren’t.. coming back to me.”

Richie furrows his brows in confusion, lowering his head to try and catch Eddie’s gaze. “.. What?”

“I thought that you didn’t want to come back to me at first.” Eddie doesn’t look up, choosing to pick at his fingernails instead. “Then.. I was scared that you just— didn’t want to see me ever again. But.. I always.. kinda knew deep down that you would.” there’s a second of silence that feels like an eternity to Richie. When Eddie speaks again, his voice is an octave lower, quieter. “Come back here, I mean.”

Richie’s brows draw closer together. “What do you mean?” he laughs it off, even if there’s ice running through his veins, even as his vision becomes hyper focused in the way it does when dread settles into his nerves. Because it’s the way that Eddie says it, like he’s always known that Richie would come back to him not out of faith, but as an eventuality. That it isn’t an opportunity, or a chance to meet again, but something for which there was no other option in the first place.

It’s the cold, calculated turn of his voice that Eddie tries to suppress which scares Richie.

Eddie looks up hesitantly, eyes darting everywhere for a prolonged moment. He opens his mouth for a second before closing it when nothing comes out, averting his gaze again before peeking back at Richie nervously.

When their eyes meet, the strangeness in Eddie’s eyes has already faded away. There’s no trace of anything wrong in those brown eyes that Richie has grown so familiar with looking into. It’s just his Eddie, looking back at him with all the affection he has always given.

“I mean.. you’re my soulmate, Richie.” Eddie says softly, just above a breath, tone melting into something loving, “I always knew that you’d come back to me somehow.”

The ice washes away with the heat pulsing in his blood, tension floods out of his system immediately as Eddie’s words register in Richie’s head.

It’s been a few weeks since they’ve gotten their shit together, and a few more since Eddie’s gotten comfortable enough to tell Richie ‘ _I like you_ ’ without looking like he wants to die. But he’s never once acknowledged that Richie is his soulmate.

For a long time, Richie just accepted that that would be something that would take Eddie a long time to accept. And that was okay. Eddie was worth the wait. Just as it took Eddie a long time to accept that Richie was a separate entity— someone real— Richie would wait as many years as it takes for Eddie to finally come around to the idea.

And now, with Eddie looking uneasily but determinedly into his eyes, Richie realises something. He’d always imagined how Eddie would say it— the way he’d look, the cadence of his voice, the words he’d used— but he never imagined how he would react to it.

Turns out, he’s a weeper.

He doesn’t even realise that he’s tearing up until Eddie is brushing the unshed tears away before they have a chance to run. “Why’re you crying?”

Wrapping his hands around Eddie’s wrists, he pulls Eddie towards him for a deep kiss. Eddie squeaks in surprise at the ferocity at first, but he melts into it quickly, tilting his head for a better angle. Eddie’s hand finds reprise in Richie’s hair, guiding Richie down at the same time that he leans up.

Richie smiles against Eddie’s lips briefly before he lets his own hand slide down the small of Eddie’s back.

They exchange a few long and passionate kisses before finally breaking away, panting shallowly. Richie’s hair is mussed up from Eddie tugging at it randomly, glasses crooked on his nose, while Eddie stares back with a pair of red and wet lips to match his wrinkled shirt.

“In every possible world, in every possible universe.” Richie says, voice gravelly, “I like you so much, Eddie. I wish you knew.”

Eddie’s smile quivers, although to his credit he doesn’t tear up, like Richie. All he does is to wrap his hands around Richie’s neck, trailing his fingers over the sensitive skin at the back.

“I know, Richie. Because I like you the same way.” he murmurs against Richie’s lips, smiling at him for a moment before leaning back down for another kiss.

When Richie wakes up and doesn’t see Jeff— real or fake Jeff— he panics for a second before he realises that there is a very warm arm around his chest.

Oh. That’s right. He’s on their new bed, in their new room, with Eddie sleeping next to him. Or rather, sleeping behind him. It’s their first night sleeping together on the same bed and Richie feels like it’s something that they’ve been doing for a long time. It feels natural to be next to Eddie.

Richie lifts his arm, turning around to get a better look at Eddie. Although Richie had gone to sleep being the big spoon last night, it seems like they had switched positions in their sleep.

Eddie’s hair is rumpled from sleep. It’s gotten a bit longer than it was a few weeks ago, so it begins to curl in the weirdest ways after turning in his sleep. His face is peaceful in his dreams, there are no lines of worry or wrinkles near his eyes when he’s snoring lightly like this. There’s a small trail of drool from the corner of his mouth, but it ends abruptly where his cheeks touch the pillow.

It’s a nice view to wake up to, not because Eddie is a sight to behold, but because of the intimacy in being able to watch Eddie sleep. The intimacy in being allowed to be here. Richie could wake up to Eddie’s sleeping face every day and not get tired of it. He’d stay like this forever if he could, basking in the morning sun that hasn’t fully lit up their room yet, hearing the soft sounds Eddie makes when he breathes in.

But Richie really needs to pee.

With a quick kiss to Eddie’s hair, he untangles himself from the mess of limbs and gets up cautiously, trying not to disturb the balance on their bed and wake Eddie up in the process. Eddie’s arm falls uselessly onto the space where Richie’s body used to be. Richie turns back to make a quick promise to Eddie to get back in their bed as soon as possible, and then he’s padding across the room silently to the en suite bathroom.

A quick piss later, Richie is tucking himself back into his boxers, washing his hands with soap when he hears it.

Someone is weeping.

The sound drifts in as if it was carried a long distance to finally arrive here, battered and bruised. It’s so quiet that Richie nearly misses it the first time, dismissing it for the sound of the wind whistling outside. But then he hears it, a single “hic” that rises above the rest of the sound.

Richie’s blood runs cold.

He turns off the tap and wrestles the door open, all but throwing himself back onto the bed, crawling frantically to Eddie, who is still curled up under the covers. When Richie finally gets a look at Eddie, Eddie is already blinking awake, startled by the sudden urgency of Richie’s movements.

“Richie?” Eddie croaks, turning over to lie fully on his back. He brings a hand to his eyes, trying to block out the brightness of the room. “What is it?”

Other than the small track of drool from his mouth, Eddie’s face is dry. There’s no tear tracks, no red eyes or nose to suggest that Eddie had been crying, much less awake.

Feeling rushes back to Richie’s hands, but the worry that seized his heart in its vice grip hasn’t let go just yet. Richie knows what he heard. Someone was crying, even if it was distorted and damn near inaudible. He thought it was Eddie, but looking at how disoriented Eddie is now, still in the process of waking up, he doesn’t know anymore.

“What happened?” Eddie asks again.

Richie shakes his head, leaning in to plant another kiss to Eddie’s head. “It’s nothing.”

It _is_ nothing, Richie thinks to himself. There’s no point in worrying Eddie when he doesn’t even know happened himself. If he told Eddie, he would just worry him unnecessarily. There was no need to do that.

Eddie eyes him a second longer before he lets it go. “Is it time for breakfast yet?”

“It’s always time for breakfast, baby. And then we’re going to get packing.”

It was a suggestion from Eddie to pack their things into their new room. Even if they could have kept their belongings in their own rooms, it felt incomplete to move into their new room without having much in there. Distantly, Richie wondered if this was something Eddie wanted. His room had been neat and clean to the point of feeling sterile, and Richie wondered if Eddie had secretly craved having a room that was more lived in.

He doesn’t ask about it, though. Some things are better left in his thoughts.

Richie is stuffing the last of his hoodies into the hand carry bag he uses when he travels, having a bit of trouble trying to zip it up. He knows that Eddie would probably fuss over the wrinkles in his clothes when he starts unpacking it later, but that’s a problem for later. In the same way that _if it’s not the due date, it’s not the do date_ works, if it’s not the time to panic, Richie isn’t going to panic yet.

“Come on,” Richie grits out, clenching his teeth, “Stupid zipper.”

The zipper gives way with a loud _pop!_ , causing Richie to fall backwards.

He’s on his butt, elbows on the ground, staring at the little piece of metal in his hand in betrayal.

“Ah, fuck it.” Richie says, tossing it into the dustbin by his desk. “Whatever. It’s not like I really need to zip it up or anything.”

Richie takes both straps in one hand and closes his room door with the other hand, about to walk towards their new room when he finds Eddie’s room door wide open. Curious, Richie stops outside Eddie’s room to peek inside.

Eddie’s standing in front of his desk, examining a pill bottle in his hand. Except that Eddie isn’t really looking at it, more like looking past the bottle into some other place where Richie isn’t. His luggage lies by his feet, shirts and books neatly stacked one on top of the other.

Richie clears his throat. This snaps Eddie out of his reverie. Eddie jerks away from the table, looking towards Richie with wide eyes.

“Are you okay, babe?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m good.” Eddie says, scratching the back of his neck with the other hand that isn’t holding onto the bottle. “I, uh, I was just. Remembering something.”

Richie raises a brow, walking into the room. He dumps his bag next to Eddie’s luggage so that he can hold Eddie’s arms, rubbing up and down soothingly.

Eddie notices his bag, wide open with a broken zip. There’s a shirt that has come loose from the impact of the fall.

Eddie looks up dryly, “Do I want to know?”

“Nope.”

“Right.” Eddie nods.

Richie continues rubbing Eddie’s arm for several minutes. He’s still not sure how time works in dreamspace, but he’s keeping track of how the clouds drift outside, the shadows they cast in passing. When he feels Eddie’s body relaxing gradually into his, he knows that it’s a good thing that he decided to stop by after all. Eddie has always been a tight ball of stress, but Richie’s learning that a little physical touch helps him to uncoil.

So Richie tucks Eddie’s head under his chin, swaying them from side to side while he hums a tune that sounds a lot like _You Are My Sunshine_. Eddie turns to fully hide his face in Richie’s chest, wrapping his arms around Richie more tightly. Richie kisses Eddie’s hair soothingly.

“What’s going on in that labyrinth head of yours, Eds?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll stop calling you Eds the day that you actually want me to stop.”

Richie can’t see it, but he can feel Eddie’s smile through his shirt. He smiles at the feeling, giving Eddie another kiss on the head. His hands are still moving up and down Eddie’s arms in slow motions.

“Did I ever tell you about my medical condition?”

“Which one? The bronchitis?”

Eddie shakes his head weakly, “No. Everything.”

Richie pauses to think about it. He doesn’t remember Eddie ever telling him all his medical conditions, because this was a touchy subject for Eddie. Richie’s never asked about it because he figured that Eddie would talk about it when he’s ready.

Looks like Eddie is ready.

“I know about some of your allergies, yeah. But otherwise, I don’t think so.” Richie answers, keeping his tone light but serious.

“Yeah. I didn’t talk about it much because I wasn’t able to— I couldn’t accept it for a long time.” Eddie drops his voice, “Years.”

Richie nods.

“I grew up taking all these medicines, Richie. I was given a laundry list of things that I was allergic to, things that could potentially kill me if I was careless. I was raised to keep my things clean— maybe to a fault. I sat out in gym classes because I had severe asthma. I wasn’t allowed in the sun because a minor sunburn could give me skin cancer.”

Richie frowns in confusion, but he doesn’t pull away from Eddie. “But, Eds, we spent so much time under the sun in the barrens. I mean, yeah, you put sunblock and all. But..”

“Yeah,” Eddie says impassively, “Exactly.”

Richie moves away, just enough that he can look into Eddie’s eyes. It’s guarded and Richie doesn’t like how wary he is starting to feel.

“Eds.. What do you mean?”

“A little sunburn won’t kill me.” Eddie laughs derisively, pressing his lips into a sarcastic smile, “As it turns out, neither will a bad sunburn. I don’t have asthma, just like how I’m not allergic to dust. Just like how I’m not allergic to animals. Just like how my allergy to nuts doesn’t exist. Just like how every _fucking_ allergy I was told that I had, doesn’t _fucking exist_!”

Richie’s heart starts drumming in his chest. Eddie’s voice is full of vitriol he’s never heard before. Briefly, he wonders if this was something that Eddie had been keeping inside of him. If it had been festering for years under his skin, eating away at him. He wonders how it must feel like to keep so much anger inside, how explosive it’ll be when it’s finally released.

“You know what was _really_ wrong with me?” Eddie asks with thinly veiled anger. Richie shakes his head, not trusting his voice. “Turns out that the only thing wrong with me was my mom, who basically lied to me for my entire fucking life. Who basically— tried to keep me tied to her for my entire fucking life!”

Eddie shakes Richie’s hands off of him, angrily throwing the bottle of pills in his hands across the room. It smashes into the wall and the lid falls open, scattering the half-red half-white pills all over the bed. Then, immediately, Eddie turns around and swipes his arms across the table, sending all the pill bottles flying off the desk, falling all across the room with some of them spilling its contents everywhere.

Richie moves away in shock, unable to tear his eyes from the face of pure rage and hurt on Eddie. He looks _furious_ , but more than that, he looks thoroughly hurt. His eyes are shiny with tears and his face is red with rage, but he looks so deeply _hurt_ that all Richie wants to do is to hold on to Eddie and tell him that everything is going to be okay.

As if just remembering something, Eddie roughly fishes through his pockets until he pulls out his inhaler. Then, looking straight at Richie, he seethes, “And this? It’s just fucking water with a bit of camphor. It’s fucking— _bullshit_.”

Eddie throws his inhaler on the floor, hard. It bounces uselessly once before landing in his luggage. The irony of life.

The inhaler landing in his luggage was the last straw. Seeing it fall back into his luggage, after attempting to throw it elsewhere, feels like a mockery. That after everything has been said and done, Eddie would always fall back onto his old habits.

Eddie bursts into a wave of angry tears. He squats down and starts rubbing at his cheeks, as if if he could wipe them away fast enough, they wouldn’t exist. But hot tears continue to roll down his red face, and loud, wet sobs wreck through his small frame.

Even if Richie doesn’t understand the depth of Eddie’s hurt, it hurts him a lot to watch the person he loves cry brokenly like this.

Richie quickly moves back to hold Eddie to him, feeling each and every sob ripple through his body as well. Eddie throws his arms around Richie’s neck, muffling his sobs in Richie’s gray hoodie.

“Do you know how fucked up it is that I had to be told the truth from Mr. Keene at twenty-two? To be called into his office and explained to about how all these fucking pills I was taking religiously— with a fucking timer and fanny pack of them— were all _placebos_? It was the most humiliating moment of my life. I’m a fucking adult, but I was the same child that I was fifteen over years ago when I sat opposite him in his office. Scared and pathetic.

“I was _bullied_ my entire life, Richie. I was— I didn’t have many friends because everyone thought I was _difficult_ to be around. And all this time, my mom was telling me that—” Eddie stops abruptly, because his hiccups worsens and it makes it difficult for him to continue coherently. Richie rubs down the small of Eddie’s back quietly, waiting for Eddie to calm down. Eddie cries for a few moments before wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, burying his face in Richie’s hoodie.

“She said that she’d be the only person who would ever accept me. The only person who could ever _love_ me, Richie. And all this time I believed her too.” Eddie’s muffled voice cracks, and something in Richie’s heart cracks as well. “But all along she had been lying to me, knowingly instilling this— fucking poisonous ideas of hers in me. And I believed every fucking word of it, Richie. I believed every fucking word she told me! And I hung onto everything that she told me because I was so afraid that if I didn’t, I’d lose the only person who would ever love me, Richie. I.. I believed that I was so unloveable that only my mom could love me.”

Richie’s heart shatters at the same time that Eddie’s voice breaks on the last sentence, bursting into a fresh wave of tears.

But at the same time, there’s something so wrong about it that makes Richie grind his teeth together. There’s a spark in him that’s spreading through his body like a wildfire when he thinks of how Eddie believed that he’s unloveable, when he thinks of how beaten up Eddie’s self-confidence is.

It’s not true. Eddie is the most loveable person there is on the fucking planet, in this fucking galaxy. Maybe Richie’s being biased, so what? He’s allowed to be. Loving Eddie isn’t always easy, and Richie doesn’t want it to be. He doesn’t need it to be easy, either. Loving Eddie comes naturally to him. It’s the most natural thing for Richie to do since he’s learnt how to breathe and walk.

He’s so fucking in love with Eddie that it hurts sometimes.

“Eddie, Eds..”

Richie pushes Eddie away gently, holding onto Eddie’s arms fiercely. Eddie looks startled by the intensity of Richie’s stare, making himself smaller in Richie’s hands.

“Your mom is wrong, you know.”

“Yeah, well.. she’s wrong about a lot of things, I guess I know that now.” Eddie chuckles humourlessly.

“I mean— yeah, she is. But, no, Eds. I meant that she’s especially wrong about saying that she’ll be the only person who will ever love you.”

Eddie’s goes still, holding his breath unknowingly. There’s only one place where this sentence can go, and they both know where it is.

It should terrify Richie to be the one making himself emotionally vulnerable. His entire life has been spent trying _not_ to be emotionally vulnerable. He laughs off uncomfortable situations and turns it into a punchline in his future jokes. He creates Voices to help deflect the hurtful comments thrown his way. He makes sure that he never puts himself in a position to be hurt in the first place, because it’s never turned out well before.

All his life has been spent running from feeling things. He knows it’s unhealthy, he knows that there will be a day when it bites him in the ass, but he does it anyway. He’s spent so long trying to run from his emotions that sometimes, he doesn’t know how to really process them properly.

But being with Eddie has thrown him into the deep end of the pool. He’s had to realise and confront the fact that he couldn’t keep deflecting everything and making things that matter to him into some kind of a joke. He had to face the fact that the things he felt were all real and they weren’t going away.

Being with Eddie made him more attuned to his feelings than he’s ever been in his entire life. It’s made him more honest with others and most importantly, with himself.

Richie realises all of this with a wistful pang in his chest. Eddie has been the only thing that matters to him for such a long time. Being with Eddie isn’t easy at all, but it’s given him so much more than he ever realised he wanted. The man in his arms, the one who believes that no one could ever love him, is the only person that Richie will ever love.

He presses his palms against Eddie’s jaw gently, “I love you, Eddie.”

Richie is partially surprised by how level his voice is for something he’s been scared shitless to say. Eddie looks transfixed by Richie, mouth agape with eyes filling with tears all over again. The corner of Richie’s lips curve up in a gentle slope as he pushes away Eddie’s fringe, wiping the corner of Eddie’s eyes where a teardrop is hanging onto precariously.

“I think that I’ve loved you from the moment that I met you, from the moment that you yelled at me. Back when I didn’t know that I was ever going to see you again, I was clinging onto that angry ‘Hey!’” Richie laughs softly, offering Eddie a tight smile, “And, although I was unhappy back then but, you know, even getting to meet you? I would’ve been happy for the rest of my life. I think that I’ve been in love with you for a very long time, Eds. And I think that I’ll keep on being in love with you until the day that I die.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, so Richie finishes his thought.

“And.. you know, it doesn’t bother me. The habits you have, I mean. I don’t care. I don’t think you’re difficult to be around. You make me so— you make me happy to be alive. You make me _thankful_ to be alive. I’m so happy because you’re here with me. I’m so happy even if you don’t know how happy you make me, how lucky I am to be in love with you.”

Eddie doesn’t react to Richie’s words for several long moments. It makes Richie wonder if it was the wrong time to tell Eddie that he loved him. Maybe he read the mood wrongly. Maybe Eddie wasn’t there yet (yet? Was it going to be a ‘yet’, or maybe Eddie would never reach love, and this is where their joint journey would end?).

Finally, Eddie exhales shakily. It sounds like a breath that he’s held on to far too long.

“You don’t have to say it, Eddie.” Richie says nervously, adjusting his glasses, “I mean— I didn’t say it expecting you to say it back. I just needed you to know that your mom was wrong. I love you, Eds. Loving you has been the best thing I’ve ever done in my life. It’s true.”

Eddie smiles into Richie’s hand, blinking away the tears that have welled in his eyes. “You’re just saying that because you’re biased.”

Richie doesn’t miss how Eddie doesn’t say it back, but it’s okay. It’s Eddie. He’s happy to just be here.

“Well, yeah. Obviously I’m biased, I mean, you’re my fucking boyfriend, Eds. I’m never not gonna be biased.” Richie snorts, rolling his eyes, “But it doesn’t make it any less true. You’re fucking amazing, Eds. Don’t know how you don’t see it. But you are.”

“I’m.. not. Really.” Eddie mumbles, averting his gaze. Richie cocks his head as his eyebrows furrows, waiting for Eddie to continue. “I just— I thought that I was making progress.” Eddie shakes his head sadly, “I thought I was over it. It’s been a few years since I found out, and I thought that I was making headway in just.. Moving on from it. Getting over the shit she told me. I mean, there’s all that time spent in the barrens.. And Jeff in your room—”

“So you’re finally acknowledging that Jeff has a name?”

Eddie sniffles, laughing wetly. Richie moves his head rightwards to dodge the hand that flies his way. “Stupid. I’m being serious here, asshole.”

“Okay, okay,” Richie snickers, “I’m sorry.”

Eddie swats Richie’s head playfully again before sighing, closing his eyes. “I thought I was over it, you know? I felt like I was doing well here. And then packing up and seeing these pills.. It was almost like I could hear her next to me, telling me how fragile I am. If I don’t take my pills, I’m going to end up sicker than I already am. And— even knowing that they’re all lies.. I’m still scared to go without them, Richie. And I hate it. She’s still in my head and I hate that I can’t get rid of her voice. I hate that I’m regressing back to fucking square one all over again. What was the point of trying to move on then?”

“Eddie..” Richie says, tilting Eddie’s head so Eddie looks at him. “My therapist once told me that it’s okay that we still get upset over shit that happened to us. Well, her exact words were something like, ‘ _Getting better isn’t always a linear path_ ’ or something. So, you know. It’s okay, that you sometimes feel like this, but it doesn’t mean that you aren’t not getting better. Wait, is that right? Aren’t not getting better— hey, don’t stare at me like that. Double negatives are confusing.”

“Idiot,” Eddie huffs.

“But it’s true. You are so fucking brave, Eds. I mean it. I think it’s fucking bad ass that you’re still trying to live your best life in spite of all the shit you’ve been through. And honestly, I think my therapist would be as proud of you as I am.”

Eddie looks uncertain. His eyes search Richie’s for something that Richie is all too willing to give. “You think so?”

Richie makes a cross over his heart, “Hope to die, Eddie.”

“Why did you go to therapy, anyway?”

“Everyone needs therapy. I think that everyone should go to therapy if they can. It was my parents’ decision back then to send me to therapy, anyway. Something my teacher suggested to them, relating to something about disruptive behaviour in class and something else that I can’t give a shit to remember.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. There’s a sense of finality in the word, but there’s a look in his eyes that says otherwise. “I— sometimes, I felt like I was the disruptive kid in class, too. My mom.. She’d argue with all my teachers. Couldn’t do Chemistry labs without her approval. Retort stands in Physics could hurt me, too. Gym was out of the question. I just felt like the world’s weirdest kid. When we moved out of Derry because my mom couldn’t convince the teachers of how fragile I was, I thought that starting over in a new town would give me more freedom. Obviously, it didn’t. And I didn’t even— realise that I wasn’t even that sick until Mr. Keene told me the truth. Isn’t that just sad?”

“It’s not your fault, Eds. No one blames you for believing your mother. It sucks that it happened to you, though. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you earlier.”

“Well..” Eddie begins, looking away again, “You were. Kind of. I mean, the day that we first met, when you intruded into my room—”

“I was not intruding. Dude, there was no way to know what was even behind the door—”

“I found out about the pills that day.” Eddie says, ignoring Richie, “And.. I mean, even if you didn’t know or understand anything, but you never made me feel much like a freak. Yeah, you were an asshole sometimes. But you weren’t being mean-spirited about it. And just, being there for me and accommodating my weird habits. I could never tell you how much it means to me that you never pressed the topic, Richie.”

“You weren’t ready for it. I’m not gonna force you to tell me about it.”

“Yeah, but not everyone is as understanding as you are.” Eddie leans up, holding onto Richie’s chin gingerly to press a chaste kiss on his lips. When they lean away, Eddie’s fingers linger on his face, lazily tracing his strong jawline. “Thank you, Richie. You— I wish you knew, how much I like you.”

“Well, I do.” Richie says quietly, kissing each of Eddie’s eyelids, “Because I like you the same way.”

They kiss again, leisurely and tenderly, hands moving around their faces and necks. Sometimes, Richie nips lightly on Eddie’s lips, relishing in the little sounds that fall from his mouth. But they don’t ever go further than that, because Richie knows that they’re not there yet. It’s okay. He likes their small, make out sessions too.

Eventually, they pull away and bicker about the mess that Eddie’s left on the floor.

“I’m just saying,” Richie says loudly, exasperatedly, “Whenever I spill hot cheetos on my bed it’s _my fault_ and _my problem_ to clean up.”

“Shut up.” Eddie says instinctively. Richie pulls a face at Eddie that gets the middle finger, although they’re both smiling at each other like playmates at the playground.

When they’re done sweeping the pills and empty bottles into a dustpan half an hour later, Eddie unceremoniously dumps everything into the dustbin. Eddie reaches over and plucks the inhaler from his luggage, letting it go over the dustbin. It falls in, noisily rustling the plastic bag in the bin.

They stare at the bin, half-filled with pills and bottles of different shapes and sizes, before Eddie steps off the foot pedal, letting the cover fall shut.

Richie turns to ask Eddie, “So what do you wanna do now?”

“I want to unpack my things with my boyfriend in our new room.” Eddie glances back at Richie with a confident smile, “Then I want to get a bad sunburn in the barrens tomorrow.”

It’s hot enough in the barrens that Richie can see heat waves dancing in the air. It reminds Richie a lot of the time when he first got his driver’s license back in Derry and his father had graciously allowed Richie to use the car over the weekend. The first weekend after he got his license, Richie took Bev and Stan on a trip over to Bangor. The sun had been blazing then, too, hot enough that Richie had seen heat mirages on his drive.

In the same way, the surface of the water seemed to reflect the heat of the sun in its ripples. Besides the way that columns of air buzzed around in horizontal waves, the water carried diamonds along in its journey down, sparkling and shimmering under the light the sun provided.

Richie wipes away a bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck languidly, watching Eddie swing the backpack around before flopping next to Richie on the ground. Eddie no longer carries his fanny packs anymore, since they only served as a reminder of his mother. Instead, he carries around a small backpack that sits nicely on his shoulders, and not once has he ever said anything about it being ill-fitting on him.

It’s nice, seeing Eddie slowly try to overcome the years of lies and toxicity planted by his mother. Richie’s lips curve upwards in a weak resemblance of a smile, because it isn’t really a smile. He isn’t happy that Eddie had lost years of his life being so afraid of doing the things that he now loves. He should’ve had the chance to do this earlier, to have friends and to have fun without fear.

But he’s so fucking proud of Eddie for how far he’s come.

Eddie catches the cryptic look on Richie’s face, turning around with a frown. “What?”

Richie shakes his head gently, placing a hand on the base of Eddie’s neck as he presses a kiss on the crown of Eddie’s head. Eddie leans forward pliantly, but shoots Richie a quizzical look when Richie moves back.

“What is it?”

“Just thinking about how fucking amazing you are,” Richie says truthfully, “So fucking brave and shit.”

“‘And shit’,” Eddie echoes, “What does that shit entail?”

“Oh, just you being unbelievably handsome,” Richie pecks Eddie’s forehead, “And smart.” a kiss on the tip of his nose, “And mine.” a kiss on his lips that makes Eddie smile.

“You’re such a sap,” Eddie says, nuzzling Richie’s neck, but he doesn’t comment on anything Richie says. It’s the fact that Eddie doesn’t refute Richie saying ‘mine’ that makes all the butterflies in Richie’s stomach flutter around in a frenzy. They’ve been together for a while but Richie’s never really called Eddie his before Eddie accepted that they are soulmates. Being able to say that now still feels like a fever dream that Richie doesn’t ever want to wake up from.

Which sucks, because Richie knows that this _is_ technically a dream that he doesn’t want to wake up from, but he will. They both know it, but they skirt around the conversation. It’s not a matter of if anymore, but a matter of when.

The only silver lining is that Richie thinks that even if he wakes up, when he falls back asleep later on, he’ll most likely be transported right back here to dreamspace. Somehow, the universe has decided to let Richie be that one person who defies all the rules to have more than one soulmate dream. Richie doesn’t question it, because he’s so fucking thankful that it’s him and he doesn’t plan on jinxing it anytime soon.

He’s so fucking lucky to be Eddie’s soulmate. It’s all he ever thinks about nowadays.

Richie presses a kiss to Eddie’s temple, hugging him closer. Eddie hums happily as he slips onto Richie’s lap, wrapping his lanky arms around Richie’s back as Richie's large hands hold onto Eddie’s waist.

“We need to put sunblock, Richie,” Eddie says, nuzzling further into Richie’s neck, “You’ll get burnt again if you don’t.”

“You say that but you don’t actually want to get off of me,” Richie chuckles.

“So you being a big teddy bear is somehow my fault now?”

“I mean, yes? You’re the person feeding me.”

“Terrible.” Eddie clicks his tongue in fake annoyance, “See if I ever let you eat another chicken chop again. Don’t make me make good on my Kale diet promise.”

Richie suppresses his giggles, because although Eddie likes to make this threat, the both of them know that it’s an empty one. Eddie likes spoiling Richie too much, and Richie likes eating Eddie’s food more than any instant food he can create in a second. He hasn’t created any meal since they’ve had the kitchen, and he doesn’t plan to anytime soon.

Instead of bringing up his usual “I’ll just have to make my own food, then”, because they both know that he won’t, Richie bends down to kiss the side of Eddie’s shoulder in a placating way. Eddie peels his face away from Richie’s neck to track Richie’s movements with a lazy smile.

“Wish that I could have this forever,” Eddie mumbles, “Watching you kiss me.”

Richie pushes Eddie back enough to give him a reassuring kiss, “You will, Eds. I’m not going anywhere.”

Eddie’s smile takes a wistful edge as it fades from his eyes. It’s how Richie knows that, even if he’s here physically, he’s slipping elsewhere mentally.

“I know, Richie,” Eddie says softly. Richie doesn’t have to be a genius to know what Eddie’s thinking of right now. He doesn’t even think that he needs to know Eddie well to pick up on the longing underlying his voice. “I was just thinking that.. I want to be able to rewatch this anytime.”

Richie clenches his jaw and looks away, falling silent for once.

He hates that this is something that Eddie thinks about when they’re enjoying a moment, that when Richie disappears again one day, he wants to be able to remember this moment as it is. He hates that Eddie can’t ever enjoy their little touches anymore without trying to memorise everything. And above everything, he hates that he’s the reason for this, and he can’t do anything to quell Eddie’s worries.

In that moment, a memory comes back to him.

_“I wish that I had more photos to remember the years we spent together. They’re never coming back and memory is unreliable. I think it would’ve been nice to be able to look through photos we took then and laugh at how much has changed.”_

The solution is so simple.

Immediately, Richie closes his eyes and imagines such a printer. A small, sleek black box with a long slit on one end for pictures to slide out.

When he opens his eyes again, he sees a small black square on the ground next to him. It looks like a dummy model, something displayed on the window sills of shops. But if Richie’s learnt anything from his time in dreamspace, it’s that it should work.

Well, it’s time to test it.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie says. Eddie looks up, puzzled. Richie exhales a short laugh, reaching up to smooth away the crease in Eddie’s brows gently. Eddie’s lips fall open, watching Richie drink in his features like a man on death row.

Even when he’s confused, Eddie looks so utterly beautiful that Richie’s chest constricts painfully.

“What is it?” Eddie asks under a breath. Richie shakes his head, tipping Eddie’s chin up with a finger to kiss him properly. Eddie’s eyes close quickly as his fingers wrap around Richie’s hand framing his face.

Richie is so dazed by the kiss that when he moves back, he nearly forgets what he wanted to do in the first place. Quickly, he takes a look at Eddie. He takes in the way that Eddie’s eyes are half-lidded, the way that his hair sways in the breeze. He takes in the awkward way that Eddie’s hands hang in the air between them, the space between them where Richie’s hand held his face.

He takes in the small, upward tug on the corner of Eddie’s lips. It isn’t the smile that Richie’s grown so used to seeing as friends, nor is it the one he’s seeing more often now as lovers, but it’s something that Richie suspects Eddie isn’t even aware of. The one where Eddie is brimming with love— and it’s all for Richie.

Richie imagines the sound of a camera shutter closing.

RIchie leans to the side when a photo begins sliding out of the slit. It’s slightly awkward because Eddie’s still sitting on his lap, giddy from the kiss, and Richie doesn’t want to jostle him suddenly. But as he leans across, Eddie snaps out of it, following Richie’s arm around him to the nondescript black box lying on the floor.

“What is that?” Eddie says as Richie plucks the photo from the box. Despite knowing that the photo’s already printed, Richie flaps it a few times, just because.

“It’s a photo I took.” Richie says.

“No shit,” Eddie grumbles, craning his neck for a better look, “You took a picture of me?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Richie snorts, “Don’t see anything else I’d take a picture of.”

“Asshole,” Eddie mutters, slapping Richie’s arm before snatching the photo, “Gimme that.”

“Eds,” Richie protests, trying to take it back. “Wait—”

“What? Did you take an ugly photo of me? Or more like, _when_ did you take—”

The words die at the tip of Eddie’s tongue when he finally sees the photo, and that’s exactly why Richie doesn’t want Eddie looking at it yet.

“Is this..” Eddie says, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. “Is this _me_?” he says with scepticism lacing his words. Richie winces.

Seconds stretch into minutes before Eddie looks up. There’s disbelief in his eyes.

“Is this how I look to you?”

Richie nods, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose anxiously. “Yeah, Eds. Why? Do you like it?”

Eddie looks back at the picture, speechless. He’s holding onto it gingerly with both hands like he cannot believe the image on it. The way that Eddie looks at it makes Richie nervous. Eddie is seeing himself through Richie’s eyes, and he doesn’t know what Eddie thinks of it.

But it looks exactly the way that Richie saw Eddie moments ago. The small smile on his lips that are red from kissing, hooded eyes with his fringe strewn across his forehead. It’s a picture of Eddie against the blue water of the Kenduskeag, rushing from one place to another, and a small triangle of grass at the corner. The skies are a faded blue behind, with little white threads sewn across the baby blue canvas.

Eddie looks beautiful in the photo, young and happy in there. The picture exudes an aura of tranquility that normal cameras will never be able to capture.

Eddie swallows thickly before mumbling to himself, “It doesn’t really look like me. I don’t think.”

There’s the beginnings of that little frown that Eddie wears whenever he disapproves of something. The way he looks at the photo as if it’s not something he likes to look at, but can’t really set it aside either. Richie knows that whatever is going through Eddie’s head right now— it’s not good.

Richie taps Eddie’s cheek lightly, enough to rouse him from his thoughts. “Don’t know what you see in there, but that’s my fucking boyfriend in there, and I will not be taking criticisms at the moment.”

“At the moment?” Eddie asks, but he looks a bit more cheerful.

“At the moment.” Richie agrees, “Until it’s my turn to wash the dishes.”

“Richie, it’s your turn to do the dishes tonight.”

“Then he has another few hours to enjoy my unconditional love.”

“That’s not— fucking unconditional, jerk.” Eddie says, “And how’d you do that anyway?”

“Do what?”

“Take this picture. I don’t see any cameras here.”

“Eds, Eddie, my love. We are living in a place where we can literally create anything we imagine. Why the fuck would there still be cameras? Don’t you remember when Tom Hardy said that, and I quote verbatim, ‘One mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling’?”

“Tom Hardy does _not_ sound like that, asshole.” Eddie says, “How’d you do it, anyway?”

“I just imagined the camera sound when I looked at you. The one that’s like, _ka-chik!_ And then it printed itself in that box over there.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep,” Richie says, “Genius, isn’t it? All those times you wanted to take a nice picture but your camera’s a potato? Not anymore. Modern problems require modern solutions, am I right?”

“Don’t blame the camera, blame the photographer’s lack of skill.” Eddie says.

“Alright, fine. I guess that the photographer’s gonna have to throw away this photo, since he’s _so_ unskilled and—”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, slapping Richie’s hand away from the photo, “I never said that this was a bad photo. It doesn’t look like me but.. it’s a nice photo.”

Richie grins at Eddie, “You like it.”

“Yes, Richie,” Eddie sighs, “I like it.” he looks back at the photo, running a finger over his face nostalgically, “You know, Mike was the first friend who ever took photos of me. I mean, he wasn’t very good at it. But he really liked taking photos. It was fun watching him snap photos of random things.”

Oh. Mike.

Richie’s heart constricts again, but for a very different reason.

Unaware of Richie’s inner turmoil, Eddie laughs to himself, shaking his head with pride in his eyes, “You know, there was actually this photo he took of this massive turtle at the barrens. It was fucking huge, and wrinkled as hell. But he made it look _majestic_ in his photo, which is pretty fucking awesome. And the fact that every picture he took of me made me look really ugly, but then he makes this wrinkly prune of a turtle look like it deserves to be on a cover of Vogue. That’s pretty funny, right, Richie?”

Eddie glances up, expecting Richie to be laughing along. But when all he sees is the way that Richie avoids his eyes, choosing to pick at a blade of grass instead, Eddie’s smile falls off his face.

Richie peeks up after noticing the hush that has fallen over them. “Oh, yeah. Um, yeah. That’s pretty funny, Eds.”

Eddie sighs slowly, shoulders sagging as he puts the picture down to hold Richie’s head in his hands. Richie’s eyes dart towards Eddie for a split second before he looks away again.

“Richie,” Eddie says, gently coaxing Richie to look up. Richie does, although with great reluctance in the way he drags his gaze over, in the way that his pout becomes more pronounced. “Richie, talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

There’s no disapproval in Eddie’s words, just a sincere desire to understand what’s eating at Richie. Richie looks down, unable to hold Eddie’s adoring but worried stare. He hates himself even before he says it.

“Mike,” Richie admits sourly. “I.. I know there’s nothing between the both of you. You’ve said that before. But.. just hearing about him, and the things that he was able to do for you.. I just,” a frustrated sigh escapes from him, “I wish it could’ve been me.”

“Richie..”

“I know. I know, Eds. I feel— I feel so awful about it. I know Mike is..” he pauses, “I know Mike is a great friend to you, Eddie. But I just.. I feel so fucking useless when I hear about how he’s saved you from all these things. I can’t help but think that I should’ve been there for you, you know? And it really sucks. I don’t want to be jealous of him. But I can’t help it.”

“Hey.. Richie,” Eddie says softly, holding Richie’s chin with gentle hands, “Baby, look at me, please?”

“Baby?” Richie repeats with a hollow laugh. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. Try to be nice for once and this is what I get.” Eddie huffs. A moment later, the playfulness dissipates and he’s looking at Richie again, cupping onto his chin tenderly. “Richie.. Mike is— he’s probably one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Maybe also because I’ve never had many friends. But, it’s true. Mike.. he’s one of the most important people in my life. I’ve been a lot happier since I’ve met him, and I’ve always felt safe around him. He’s saved me from Bowers and his idiot friends, he’s saved me from feeling like the biggest loser on Earth. He’s always going to be special to me.

“But, Richie, you’re my soulmate. And even if we discount that, you’re.. you’re my Richie.” Eddie says softly, offering a shaky smile, “You’re the person who’s made me laugh more than I ever thought I could. You.. you’ve been so patient with me. You’re always there to hold me when I’m sad. You chase all my bad days away, Richie. Mike— he makes me happy and safe. But, Richie.. you make me feel loved. You’re always going to be the person I’ll choose, alright? Even if you snore louder than my fucking alarm, and even if your toes are cold as fuck in the mornings.”

Richie chuckles, rubbing his eyes self-consciously. Eddie leans forward to plant a light kiss on Richie’s forehead, whispering, “In every possible world, in every possible universe, right?”

Richie’s heart stutters as his mind goes completely blank.

Eddie leans back, gauging Richie’s reaction. It’s only when a small line of worry appears between Eddie’s brows that Richie’s brain kickstarts again in an explosion of feelings and words that bottleneck at his throat.

“Yeah, Eds,” Richie says tightly, his grin trembling at the edges, “In every possible world. Every possible universe.”

They cling onto each other for a few minutes, letting the sounds of insects buzzing around and the water rushing down cover their soft breathing. Eddie untangles himself eventually, climbing off Richie’s lap and evading his grabby hands with expert ease.

“Come on, Rich,” Eddie says, digging through his bag to produce a big bottle of sunblock, “You need to put on sunblock before you get burnt and come crying to me tomorrow.”

“I never cry about my sunburns,” Richie mutters begrudgingly, taking off his shirt anyway. Eddie raises a skeptical brow, although he says nothing about it, squeezing a generous portion of lotion onto his palm. When Richie notices Eddie staring, he pauses, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose in confusion. “Are you.. waiting for something?”

“Yes?” Eddie says it like a question, although it’s not. Richie looks around before pointing at himself.

“Are you waiting for _me_?”

Eddie sighs irritatedly. “Yes? Who else?”

“I don’t know, I thought you were gonna put it on yourself. I mean, I can do it myself. It’s just the back that I can’t reach, mostly.”

“Yeah, but if I let you do it yourself, you’re not gonna put enough sunblock and still get burnt tomorrow, like an idiot.”

Eddie isn’t wrong, but he has also never offered to apply sunblock for Richie before Richie’s even started. Eddie looks well aware of the same thing, because he is looking intently at the lotion on his hand instead of Richie.

“Forget it—”

“Okay—”

Eddie looks up quickly, “Huh?” as Richie is turning around, hunching over so that his back is more exposed to Eddie.

“Yeah, okay. It makes sense.” Richie says, “Let Doctor K. take care of things, right?”

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie snaps, dipping a finger into the lotion in his palm and running a line down Richie’s back. Richie shivers involuntarily, brain going blank.

It’s not even close to being the first time that Eddie’s helped him apply any kind of cream or lotion on his naked torso, but this is the first time that they’re doing it as something more than friends. And this time, it feels different than it has in all the previous times that they’ve done this.

For one, Eddie’s touches are more deliberate now. It’s not just gentle touches fluttering across his skin, but long, drawn out touches that forces Richie to suppress the pleased noises he wants to make. It’s not just the way that Eddie covers all the exposed parts of his body, but the way that his eyes lingers on every inch of skin on Richie, drinking him in like a dehydrated man finding an oasis. It’s not just the way that goosebumps trail Eddie’s fingers, but the way that Eddie’s eyes flitter up, locking with Richie’s in an unspoken challenge.

Richie bites on the insides of his cheeks when Eddie moves to his front. He doesn’t want to think that there’s some truth that Eddie’s gaze becomes teasing, that the way that he touches Richie turns into something bordering on sensual. He pretends he doesn’t see the way that Eddie sucks in his lips, eyeing his chest and the trail of dark hair into his boxers.

Because if that’s true, Richie wants to know where it can go. He wants to know the kind of sounds that Eddie will make when he finally gets his hands on him, the face that Eddie will make when he comes apart all because Richie. All _for_ Richie.

Richie swallows thickly once Eddie is done with his face, scooting away quickly with nervous laughter. “All good, old chap?”

Eddie shoots him a look, “Are you seriously going to do your Voices now?”

“A good aspiring ventriloquist should never give up the opportunity to practice,” Richie says uneasily, wishing away the heat pooling in his groin at the thoughts running through his head.

“You’re such a turd, really.” Eddie says, taking off his shirt. Richie does a double-take.

“Woah, woah, woah.” Richie says, “What are you doing?”

Eddie squints at Richie quizzically, “I’m taking off my shirt.”

“Yeah, obviously, I see that. I meant _why_ are you taking it off?”

“So that I can swim with you?” Eddie says incredulously, “Isn’t that the whole point of coming out here today?”

“Yeah.. but,” Richie says stiffly. _But you’ve never taken off your shirt before_ , he wants to say. “You don’t need to take your shirt off to swim.” he says instead.

Eddie gives him a look that clearly conveys what he thinks of Richie’s intelligence. “I’m not going to get my clothes wet, dumbass. I only brought towels along— there’s no way that I’m risking a cold because of some stupid suggestion of yours.”

And then, in the blink of an eye, Eddie rips off his shirt from behind, just like a scene out of Richie’s wet dream. Fucking spank bank material come to life, just to go back into the spank bank upgraded with new visuals.

Richie’s brain stutters again as he watches the way that Eddie’s back muscle ripple while he rolls his shirt off his arms. After weeks of cuddling and a little touching, Richie knows that Eddie’s body is chiseled. Not just in the way that his tummy is practically non-existent, but in the way that there are lean muscles in his lanky arms. It’s all the jogging and healthy eating that’s paid off, probably. Eddie is thin and wiry, but he is nicely muscled.

Despite all the feeling and touching over the last few weeks, Richie has never actually got a look at Eddie’s body the way he is now. It’s something about his diminished self-confidence that makes Eddie more nervous to go around dreamspace shirtless. So seeing Eddie’s upper body on full display now, Richie’s mouth goes dry and his eyes can’t seem to move anywhere up from the exposed skin of Eddie’s body.

Eddie looks over his shoulder while folding his shirt neatly, shooting Richie a questioning look. “What?”

Richie’s eyes snap up, “Eds,” he says, “Holy _shit_.”

Eddie smirks at him cockily, because he is an asshole. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Bitch, I might,” Richie says, and then because he remembers that he actually _can_ , he does. The sound of a camera shutter closing echoes in his head, and out comes a new picture from the black box. Eddie glances down before giving Richie an unimpressed stare.

“Really?”

“Fuck yeah, Eds. This is— you are literally my wet dream come to life.”

“Come on, Richie. We’re not teenagers anymore.”

“Yeah, but like, _Eds_. Holy fuck, I swear. You could’ve been my gay awakening if I was still fifteen or something.”

“Wait,” Eddie says, scrunching his nose, “Who was your gay awakening?”

Richie groans, “Oh my god. Seriously?”

“Why not? I’m just— curious. Wondering what your type is.”

“Eddie, you are my soulmate. You are literally the embodiment of my type.”

“Stop deflecting and answer my question, dumbass.” Eddie says, squatting over to flick Richie’s forehead.

“Ow, what the fuck. Sheesh, it was some fireman dude, okay? Like, those on the calendars? He was holding a dog, and he had like 6 packs and flames burning behind him and shit.” Richie gestures vaguely to his own tummy, “He was very manly. Very hot.”

Eddie snorts, squeezing blobs of sunblock onto his arms and body. “Your gay awakening was a firefighter calendar? That’s so embarrassing.” he shakes his head, amused.

“You would totally understand if you saw the dude, Eds. I swear.” Richie pauses thoughtfully, “Have you even seen a firefighter calendar before?”

Eddie scoffs, “I’m a 29 year old man, Richie. What do you think?”

“No?”

“Asshole,” Eddie says, “I’ve seen one, okay? Mike gave one to me on my birthday, because he can be an asshole sometimes too.”

“Wow, I never thought I’d have to thank Mike for that.”

“Yeah, well, my mom got really fed up when she saw it in my room. She threw it away immediately and she wanted me to stop hanging out with Mike, too. She thought that he was bad influence on me.” Eddie eyes Richie pointedly, “If only she met you.”

“Obviously we’ve met, Eds. Who else do you think keeps her company at night?”

Eddie wrinkles his nose in disgust, “We’re boyfriends— literally _soulmates_ — and you’re still going to make jokes about fucking my mom?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Fucking deplorable,” Eddie mutters, “Shut the fuck up and get over here. I can’t cover all of my back properly.”

And because Richie will never pass up any opportunity to get his hands on Eddie, he promptly shuts his mouth and plants himself behind Eddie, snatching the bottle of lotion from besides Eddie’s thigh.

Despite all the times that Eddie’s helped Richie apply sunblock, this is the first time that Richie is helping Eddie. Mostly because this is the first time that Eddie has taken off his shirt, but still.

Thinking about it a little longer, Richie realises that this is the first time that he’s touching Eddie’s body without anything between them. It’s not like their cuddles where they’re both clothed, or when they’re spooning at night and Richie is shirtless whereas Eddie pulls on one of Richie’s old hoodies.

And it’s the knowledge that for all of Richie’s nights spent with some man that has now become a faceless figure in his memories, it feels like the first time that he’s touching someone’s bare skin. Because this is the first time that he gets to touch _Eddie’s_ bare skin, and it’s somehow more nerve wracking. It sends tingles up his fingertips that goes straight to his heart, sending it pounding all over again. His hands freeze momentarily on Eddie’s back, long enough for Eddie to take notice and look over his shoulder with a brow arched in question.

“Rich?”

Richie looks up sharply, blinking away the weird sensation crawling under his skin. Something akin to being moved to tears at the progression in Eddie’s comfort levels around Richie, and something else that feels like the beginning of want and desire.

“Yeah?” Richie says, clearing his throat. Eddie’s brow crawls higher up his face, but he lets it go after a second with a small sigh.

“Hey, I was just wondering..”

“Oh no,” Richie chuckles playfully, rubbing sunblock all across Eddie’s back haphazardly. “Should I be scared?”

“Hilarious,” Eddie says dryly, “Hysterical, Richie. Shut up. I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“The photo printer thing..” Eddie glances at the black box on the ground a feet away, “Why didn’t you choose to make it a videotape instead? I mean, you can keep more memories that way. Sounds, moments and stuff.. maybe you could even retain the smell of certain places in those videotapes, since we’re being futuristic here.”

Richie ponders on it for a second, “Honestly, I never thought that far.”

“Figures.”

“Shut up.” Richie says, drawing a line down Eddie’s lower back where he is ticklish. Eddie yelps, straightening his back quickly.

“You’re such an asshole,” Eddie hisses, narrowing his eyes at Richie, who merely smiles back innocently at Eddie.

“But I’m _your_ asshole,” Richie says.

Eddie sighs, “I wish you realised how awful that sounds. But yes,” his voice turns soft, eyes curving upwards as a loving smile grows across his face, “You’re my stupid asshole.”

They take a couple more photos that afternoon, most of which goes into a big photo album that Eddie creates. It’s thick with hardcovers, because Eddie insists that there’ll be a lot more photos going in there. Richie doesn’t protest. He likes the idea that they’ll be immortalising all kinds of moments they spend together, the significant and seemingly insignificant ones.

That night, a photo frame is added on the ledge under their TV, next to the one from Richie’s room of Bev, Stan and him. In it is a photo of Richie and Eddie, lying together in the hammock. Eddie lies between Richie’s legs, and Richie has a hand on Eddie’s knee. The sun is starting to set in the photo, casting half of their bodies in the shade from the tree branches and newly grown leaves. Eddie is wearing a smile that he reserves only for Richie, looking at the camera with one hand in Richie’s, while Richie kisses the back of Eddie’s head with both eyes shut.

Over summer, their photo album fills up gradually.

When Richie slots the last photo in, he slides the album into the corner of a little box they keep under the TV ledge. Then he imagines a new album, similar to the one Eddie created months ago, but with a softer fabric cover. Something cream coloured, because Eddie likes soft colours like that.

It appears next to the two photo frames, slowly filling up over time as well.

When Richie looks around their new room, all he sees is evidence of how much they’ve created a new life for themselves together. The room, so empty before, is now filled in with pieces of both of them. From the meticulous way that the bed is made everyday, to the way that Eddie’s books slowly fill the small shelf next to the ledge with non-fiction books such as _The Black Swan_ and _Thinking Fast and Slow_ and _Experts on the Anti-Sicilian_ , which manages to both amaze and bore Richie at the same time. And there’s the way that one of Richie’s posters— the Radiohead one that Eddie doesn’t comment on— hangs on the wall near his side of the bed, and the way that all their bedsheet designs are a variation of Richie’s.

It feels like their room now, rather than a room that they created. Richie loves it a lot, but he knows that Eddie loves it even more than he does. It’s in the way that his jaw unclenches when he steps into the room, and the way that he falls asleep quickly, that Richie knows that this is the closest to having a place to truly call home, that Eddie gets. A place where Eddie can relax and look forward to returning when the sky gets dark at night.

It’s one of those rare autumn afternoons that they’re still in bed that Richie realises what domestic bliss really feels like. Being able to be in your home with the person you love will always be a novel feeling to Richie. There’s just too many new things to discover that Richie never gets bored of staying in one place and doing nothing.

Not that he’d get bored with anything Eddie-related. That’s just how his brain is wired.

Currently, Eddie’s feet are tucked under his legs, and he has an arm slung around Eddie’s waist while his nose lies near to Eddie’s ear, so that his mouth is at the strategic spot where he’s able to whisper sweet nothings that make Eddie smile. Raindrops pitter-patters onto the ledge outside their window while the sun peeks in through the gaps between their curtains, like a curious uninvited spectator that unwittingly makes its presence known.

Eddie shifts closer to Richie, dragging his fingers lightly across Richie’s scalp, picking up soft tufts of hair when they reach the end.

“Your hair’s getting long.” Eddie whispers. Richie moves towards the sound of Eddie’s voice, wrapping his other arm around Eddie’s waist as he hums appreciatively. “Wanna cut it?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Richie peeks an eye open. “Are you gonna use the bowl again?”

Eddie groans, “It wasn’t even that many times, Richie. Will you ever let me live it down?”

“That was _all_ the times you cut my hair last time, Eds. It was at least four times.”

“Okay, and I was inexperienced. I’ve had a lot of time to practice while you were gone, alright? I cut my own hair too. You said it looks good.”

“It looks good.” Richie agrees, leaning in to give Eddie a quick kiss on the forehead, “Anything you wear looks good. You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

Eddie pulls away sharply, frowning at Richie. Richie whines slightly at the loss of contact, although he doesn’t try to pull Eddie back to him just yet.

“Wait, does that mean that you don’t find my haircut objectively good looking? Are you— did you only say that because it’s me? What if my haircut was bad, like _really_ bad? Would you tell me that it looks good too?”

“Eddie,” Richie says seriously, “If you had the same haircut you gave to me seven years ago, I would tell you that it looks ugly as fuck, but you’re still gonna be the hottest person I’ve ever seen.”

“Even with that haircut?”

“Even with that haircut.”

Eddie smiles smugly, looking exactly like the cat that got the cream, except that there is no cream, and that Eddie isn’t a cat. Eddie wiggles back into Richie’s embrace, which Richie is more than happy to accommodate, craning his neck to plant another kiss on the crown of Eddie’s head.

It’s quiet enough for a long moment for Richie to think that Eddie’s dropped the topic until Eddie raises his head enough to catch Richie’s eye. Richie looks up, pouting at the loss of contact.

“So are you gonna let me cut your hair?”

Richie groans, wiggling up on the bed. Eddie lifts himself off of Richie’s chest until Richie is fully leaning back against the headboard.

“You really want to cut my hair? It’s pretty long.”

“Yeah. That’s the whole point of cutting your hair, genius.”

Which is how Richie ends up sitting on a stool in their en suite bathroom, with a cape clipped around his neck. From his seat in front of the mirror, he can see the way that Eddie’s hands hover around his head. There’s that little pink tongue of his poking out between his lips, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. In the beginning, Eddie makes bold movements, big snips across followed by gentle hands combing through the freshly cut ends. With every cut, Richie closes his eyes momentarily, imagining how tufts of his hair flutter around him in an unsynchronised dance, ending their performance on the floor.

After a few minutes, Eddie’s bold movements water down into measured, precise snips of his scissors. Eddie’s face is closer to Richie’s now, close enough to feel the way that Eddie’s warm breath blows against the back of his neck. He can feel the cool edge of the metal scissors against his skin, but he doesn’t flinch at it. He closes his eyes when he feels the dull edge of the blade press lightly against his skin, when he feels short strands of his hair fall onto his face, tickling his nose and eyes.

Richie hears Eddie put down the scissors in the sink. It makes a hard noise as it settles against the smooth porcelain. Then he feels a towel brush against his face and neck delicately, slow movements not to startle Richie. Finally, he hears the way Eddie exhales quietly, stepping away from Richie to look at his work.

Richie opens his eyes calmly. He blinks a few times to blink away the feeling of sleep that has latched onto him.

Looking into the mirror, Richie sees a much fresher-looking image of him blinking back. His curls are not long enough to pull his hair down anymore, so they look expanded— fluffy and floating in space. His fringe doesn’t cover his eyes anymore, and they don’t irritate the skin on his nose so that he needs to flick it off. The ends at the back are short enough that they won’t touch the collar of his printed shirts. It’s a new change to his hairstyle that he’s had since he can remember, but it looks good on him. It makes him look alive, mature.

Richie grins at Eddie through the mirror, combing through his hair with his fingers. “It looks really good, Eds.”

“Really? You’re not just saying this because I cut it?”

“Yeah. Really, babe. It looks really good. It makes me look good.”

Eddie chuckles, walking behind Richie to unclip the cape. In one swift motion, Eddie lifts the cape over Richie and folds it over the sink, letting cut strands of Richie’s hair fall into the sink.

“I think it looks good, too.” Eddie says belatedly, smiling at Richie with pride.

Richie stands up at the same time that Eddie turns back around, leaning against the sink with a coy smile beckoning Richie closer. Richie steps closer and closer until he’s in Eddie’s space, crowding him yet further in until their hips are pressed together.

One of Eddie’s hands finds its place in Richie’s hair, ruffling the shorter ends.

“You look _really_ good, Rich.” Eddie whispers, just a breath away from Richie’s lips. Richie lets his gaze fall to Eddie’s lips. He’s about to glance back at Eddie’s eyes, to ask ‘ _is this okay?’_ when Eddie leans in slowly. It’s a warning and a chance for Richie to back out of it if he doesn’t want to, but all Richie does is to close the gap.

He wants to. He doesn’t know what Eddie wants, but whatever it is, Richie wants it too.

They continue kissing each other for a long time. It’s a happy and simple kiss which deepens only when Eddie’s hand cups Richie’s jaw, guiding him closer. Richie is more than happy to oblige. The only place he’s ever wanted to be is close to Eddie.

As Richie takes two cautious steps forward, Eddie spreads his legs apart to wrap them around Richie’s waist, locking Richie in. Richie hums into the kiss, sliding his hands under Eddie’s shirt. Eddie shivers quietly, breaking the kiss to look into Richie’s eyes.

Eddie has never been an easy book to read. It takes years of getting to understand terminology and learning to navigate subtle complexities. However, when Richie searches Eddie’s eyes in that moment, Eddie has never been more easy to read than he is now. His eyes pour into Richie’s, begging for Richie to hold him, to love him and never let go.

Richie nuzzles into Eddie’s hands on his face, making sure not to break eye contact even if the moment overwhelms him, washes over his body in waves. Eddie’s lips part as he watches Richie lay a gentle kiss on the palm of his hand, still rubbing circles into Eddie’s skin under his shirt. Eddie swallows thickly, watching Richie study every crease on his face.

Eddie is beautiful. It’s not just his lean body with muscles lurking under that’s beautiful to observe, it’s not just the way that he smiles when he laughs, or the way that his lips are wet from their kisses earlier. It’s everything about him. It’s the way that Eddie cries when he’s angry, it’s the way that he frowns at Richie when he’s upset, it’s the way that Eddie sometimes snorts uglily when something that Richie says catches him by surprise.

Even now, when there’s a little line between his brows and a little nervous downward tug on the edge of his lips, he’s still beautiful. And Richie wants to see all of it, he wants to see everything that Eddie is.

“You’re beautiful,” Richie says softly, moving his hands up Eddie’s back, exploring new terrains that he’s never been so bold in mapping before. Eddie arches his back as Richie’s rough palms slide up his body, leaving a trail of his curious touches all over as he presses into hard muscle, into the bony ridges of Eddie’s back.

“Richie..” Eddie gasps.

With trembling hands, Eddie wraps his hands around Richie’s neck, bringing him back for another kiss. It’s unhurried and tender, both of them taking their time to let their hands wander around each other’s body as they move their hips together in an irregular rhythm. It starts out awkwardly, with Eddie waiting for Richie to take the lead and Richie not wanting to push Eddie too far, too fast; but they find a slow rhythm after a few seconds, grinding against each other with soft _uh_ noises tumbling from their mouths.

It’s so good. It’s better than anything that Richie could ever imagine. Having Eddie so near to him, pressed up against him with their hips moving in tandem. Being able to let his hands roam around Eddie’s naked skin, mapping out lines and teasing his pebbled nipples. Being able to listen to Eddie’s soft moans and watch the way that his eyelids flutter shut when Richie gets his mouth on Eddie’s neck.

“Richie,” Eddie gasps, throwing his head back to give Richie better access. Richie hums, licking the crook of his neck just above his collarbone. It’s so familiar to Richie, putting his face here and breathing in the scent of sweat and Eddie. He’d always wondered what it’d be like to be able to put his mouth on this patch of skin, to lick and to nip and to suck on it, to watch it redden because of him.

He’d always wanted to leave his mark on Eddie’s neck, where he could see it easily. To look at it and know that _he_ was the one who put it there, to know that Eddie wanted it there.

He muffles his moan into the crook of Eddie’s neck, sucking and nipping on the skin and revelling in the way that Eddie’s breathing stutters. Eddie’s hands claw at Richie’s back, over the fabric of his shirt. It annoys Richie and dampens his mood, because he wants there to be red lines down his skin. He wants to feel the way that Eddie leaves his mark on him, the same way that he’s doing now.

The thought flies out of his mind when he hears Eddie gasp his name sharply, thrusting his hips sharply and breaking the rhythm that they had earlier.

“Eddie—” Richie groans, feeling his dick twitch in interest. He’s fully hard by now, and when he presses his erection against Eddie’s crotch, he knows he isn’t the only one.

So he rubs his thumb around Eddie’s nipples teasingly, making sure that he only rubs his pebbled nipples once in a while, and it drives Eddie crazy. Eddie shivers against Richie, hiding his face in Richie’s neck to stifle the miserable noises he’s making when Richie moves away from his sensitive buds. The sounds that Eddie makes, the ferocity with which he pushes his hips against Richie’s makes Richie want to get rougher, to pinch them and to get his mouth on them and _suck_ on them and to watch Eddie fall apart.

Heat pools in his gut as Eddie grinds against Richie impatiently. The friction is delicious and Richie wants nothing more but to grind back against Eddie and get rid of this fucking shirt that’s covering Eddie’s chest, but he needs to do something important first.

Richie’s hands fly to Eddie’s hips, pushing him back onto the countertop. Eddie opens his eyes weakly, meeting Richie’s heated gaze. Eddie’s pupils are blown and his face is flushed in arousal and god is it a sight to behold. “Richie?”

Richie wants to cup Eddie’s face and kiss him like his fucking life depends on it. Instead, he draws lazy circles into the skin at Eddie’s hips, just above the waistband of his briefs. Richie’s hips are still rolling against his, pressing his hips back into the countertop, grinding their lengths against each other’s. Eddie shudders involuntarily, eyes closing as he moans softly.

“Eds, baby, you gotta tell me what you want.” Richie says in a low voice, “Don’t wanna do anything you aren’t comfortable with.”

Because even if they’ve grinded on each other and made out multiple times before, this is the first time that Eddie wants to take it further than that. Richie has experimented with other people before to know what he likes and dislikes. He knows what it feels like to have someone else’s hands on him, making him feel good. But not Eddie. It’s his first time with a man, it’s his first time doing _anything_ like this.

Eddie opens his eyes slowly, focusing on Richie with a tiny smile on his face. He looks bashful, like a person about to confess something sweet that’ll make your toes curl. But here they are, with laboured breathing and beads of sweat on their forehead. “What I want?” Eddie echoes.

“Yeah, babe,” Richie says, fingers still moving against Eddie’s hipbone, “What do you want me to do for you?”

Eddie looks away, covering his face with a hand, trying to hide the embarrassed upturn of his lips. Richie follows the turn of Eddie’s body, still holding him down at the hips. If anything, he digs his fingers into Eddie’s flesh. It’s not going to bruise, but it definitely makes Eddie choke out a whine.

“What?” Richie asks.

Eddie makes a miserable sound, peeping at Richie through the spaces between his fingers. “I’ve always.. wanted a blowjob.” he admits quietly, almost _painfully_. He tears his gaze away the moment the words are out of his mouth, looking anywhere else but Richie— which is a feat considering their close proximity. But if anyone can do it, it’s Eddie. “I’ve always wanted to watch you give me a blowjob.”

Richie blinks, tugging at Eddie’s hand on his face gently. Eddie resists it at first, but relents after a second or two, letting Richie take his palm in his larger one.

“You want me to blow you?”

“Yeah,” Eddie admits reluctantly.

“That’s great,” Richie says, dropping to his knees immediately. Eddie jumps at the abruptness of Richie’s actions, hands hanging in the air awkwardly as he blinks down at Richie. Richie only smiles affectionately at Eddie, pushing his thighs apart slowly before rubbing the light stubble on his jaw against Eddie’s inner thighs. Eddie purses his lips painfully, breathing harder as Richie nuzzles into the tender flesh. “Because I’ve been dreaming of blowing you for such a long time.”

Richie’s confession brings Eddie back to the moment. He opens his eyes weakly, peering down at Richie with disbelief written all over his expression.

“Really?”

“Yeah, Eds.” Richie kisses the red marks on Eddie’s thigh, “Really.”

“For how long?”

“Don’t know,” Richie says, “Probably since I realised you liked me.”

Eddie’s about to say something but it dies at the tip of his tongue when Richie leans in to press butterfly kisses up his thighs, alternating between both legs. The farther along Richie goes, the more soft noises Eddie makes, eyelids fluttering shut in pleasure.

“Richie..” Eddie murmurs, gripping onto the countertop with two hands. There’s a quiet sound, muffled by how Eddie presses his lips together, trying to be quiet. It only encourages Richie— he _wants_ to hear every sound that Eddie makes.

Richie leaves kisses all the way until the hem of Eddie’s briefs, where he gives a particularly wet kiss that makes Eddie’s legs quiver. Glancing upwards, he sees Eddie nod his consent with a shaky smile, sliding his hands down his body to peel his briefs away. Richie’s heart pounds even faster, blood rushes through his body as Eddie’s briefs fall down his legs.

Although Eddie’s hands tremble and he gets stuck trying to push it farther down his knees, it’s still the sexiest thing that Richie has seen. Eddie is undressing himself so that Richie can blow him in their en suite bathroom. That’s better than anything that he’s imagined in the last few months, and the way that his dick throbs assures him of that.

Even when he’s staring back at Richie with a tinge of defensiveness in his expression, Richie thinks that Eddie is the best thing he’ll ever be blessed to lay his eyes on. More than exposed, Eddie looks vulnerable, waiting for Richie to do something. There is an anxious anticipation in his eyes that conveys to Richie how important this moment is to him. That they’re both here after a long journey of fighting their own demons, and Eddie is finally comfortable enough to push for more physical intimacy.

And Eddie’s cock— it’s the most beautiful fucking cock that Richie has ever seen. Granted that he has an admittedly small sample size to compare it to, and his conclusion is going to be biased because it’s _Eddie_ and that’s _Eddie’s cock_ that he’s talking about, but Richie has never claimed to be objective when it comes to Eddie. He wears that like a badge of honour every fucking day of his life. It doesn’t matter if some other guy is longer or thicker, because Eddie’s dick is the only dick he wants to be sucking for the rest of his life.

He’s so busy admiring Eddie that he doesn’t realise how Eddie suddenly freezes until he’s holding Richie away by his shoulders. Richie looks up, arching a brow.

“Are you okay, Eds?”

“Richie, you can’t do this here.” Eddie says quickly.

“Why not?”

“You’ll— you’ll fuck your knees up, giving me a blowjob here. I mean, should we get some pillows or something? Should we move—”

“Okay,” Richie says slowly, clapping his hands over Eddie’s, “Eds, listen to me. We’re in dreamspace, right?” Eddie nods unsurely, but he isn’t saying anything else, which gives Richie the confidence he needs to continue. “So, I’m not gonna fuck my knees over a blowjob. If it hurts, I’ll just wish the pain away. Or you know, even better than that..”

“What?” Eddie asks flatly, although he’s still panting lightly.

“You could give me a massage.” Richie says with a grin.

Eddie continues staring as unamusedly as he can manage, “I am _not_ giving you a massage over something that’s easily preventable.”

“My knees hurting is a _natural consequence_ of giving my very hot boyfriend a mindblowing blowjob in the middle of our bathroom, on cold and hard tiles.”

“Mindblowing?”

“Yeah, Eds,” Richie says, “Gonna blow your mind with the power of my mouth. You’re about to experience firsthand why I’m known for my trash mouth— or should I say, you’re about to experience it first suck.”

“Richie,” Eddie sighs exasperatedly, throwing his hands up, “You were known for your trash mouth because everything that comes out of there is basically shit. _Not_ for your blowjob skills.”

“That’s right, baby,” Richie says, wiggling his eyebrows as he leans back in, still holding eye contact with Eddie, “Everything that comes out is basically shit. But I’m _incredibly_ selective of what goes in.”

“Yeah. Somehow I fucking doubt— _oh_.”

Richie leans in, pressing a kiss to the tip of Eddie’s drooling dick. Eddie inhales sharply, loudly, clenching his fists by his side. Eddie bites on the insides of his cheeks as he closes his eyes, leaning his head back when Richie wraps his hand around the base, pumping experimentally. He looks back at Eddie, drinking in the way that Eddie’s body arches, the veins along his neck that become prominent.

Richie gives himself a lazy stroke through his boxers while he kisses down Eddie’s length, licking the underside of his cock on the way back to the tip. Eddie whines softly.

“Richie.. oh my god.”

“That feel good, babe?”

“God,” Eddie gasps when Richie’s tongue swipes over the slit before wrapping his lips around the crown of Eddie’s cock. Eddie is so hot on his tongue, leaking pre-come into his mouth. Richie moans softly around Eddie, and the vibrations around his length makes Eddie whimper, biting on his lips. His legs close in on Richie’s head, crushing Richie’s head between his strong thighs, bringing him closer to his balls. “Richie, please..”

He brings a hand around Eddie’s tight balls, fondling it in one hand as he sinks down Eddie’s length. He doesn’t go down all the way yet, and it makes Eddie even more eager to push himself into Richie’s mouth, to chase the wet heat around him.

Almost as if Richie could sense Eddie’s intentions, his hand on Eddie’s balls lets go to grip tightly onto his hips, pushing him away. Eddie moans impatiently, moving his hand to pinch his nipples through his shirt.

“Richie, I need—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Richie pulls away quickly, pressing his closed lips against the tip of Eddie’s cock.

“Eds.” Richie says huskily. Eddie opens his eyes, panting heavily as he tilts his head down to meet Richie’s eyes. Richie looks up from under his eyelashes, making sure that Eddie is watching him before he opens his mouth again, breathing measuredly through his nose so that he can take Eddie all the way this time.

“Oh my god,” Eddie cries, bucking his hips into Richie’s mouth, tugging painfully on Richie’s hair. Richie hums in approval, feeling Eddie hit the back of his throat. “Richie, Richie. Please.”

Richie happily moans around Eddie, bobbing his head along Eddie’s length. Eddie cries softly, thrusting his hips up when Richie sucks teasingly, when his tongue laps over the veins running on the underside of his cock. Richie breathes out through his nose measuredly, trying not to let his own excitement and arousal, coupled with Eddie’s throbbing dick in his throat, choke him.

When Eddie’s breathing gets too fast, he moves away, mouthing down his wet length to kiss and suck Eddie’s balls into his mouth. He doesn’t want Eddie coming too quickly. He wants to make this good for him, he wants to watch Eddie come apart because of him slowly, and it drives Eddie crazy. He’s chanting Richie’s name like a prayer as he pinches his nipples, pulling on fistfulls of Richie’s hair as he chases his climax.

“Richie Richie Richie— _oh_ my god. Richie— I can’t. I need to come. Please let me come. Please let me—”

Every word that Eddie spills mindlessly goes to Richie’s cock. He’s hard and aching in his own boxers, throbbing with the need to touch himself. To get himself off. He’s never been this aroused in his life and all wants to put a hand around himself and fucking rub himself until he comes. He wants to come with Eddie’s wrecked begging, with Eddie coming because of him.

Instead, he puts that desire into kissing Eddie’s cock, into licking along the thin veins that run along his base, right back to the tip where he runs his tongue along the slit before he dives right back in without warning, taking all of Eddie in one swift motion. Eddie’s body tenses up, pulling on Richie’s hair with a broken sob of Richie’s name.

“Richie, please.. I— I’m not gonna—”

Eddie doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Richie _knows_ what Eddie’s going to say. If it isn’t in his erratic breathing, it’s in the way that his cock is leaking pearls of pre-come constantly, in the way that his thighs around Richie’s face keep clenching together, crushing his face to his length.

Richie pulls away from Eddie, pumping the base with his hands. Eddie lifts his head up, confused by the sudden loss of contact.

“Wanna do it on my face?” Richie asks, his voice sounds utterly fucked six ways to Sunday. “Or do you wanna come in my mouth?”

“Fuck, Richie..” Eddie croaks, nodding violently. He looks like a goddamn mess from where Richie is looking up. He’s rubbing his nipples through his shirt, using the shirt to add to the friction against his sensitive buds while his eyes are unfocused, glazed over with his own arousal. His voice is rough, dropping an octave lower than usual. Richie’s never heard his voice so broken in desire before but he doesn’t think he’ll forget it. “I— I wanna come on your face.” Eddie says at last, too far gone to be embarrassed of what he’s saying. “I’ve always wanted to come on your face, Rich. Please, please— I need to come. Oh my god, let me come.”

“ _Eds_. Holy shit.” Richie says hoarsely, licking around Eddie’s length.

With the suddenness of Richie’s mouth going around him again, the way that Richie’s cupping both of his balls in one hand, bringing the other to wrap around his base, with the way that Richie is sucking, cheeks hollowing—

Eddie comes with Richie’s name on his lips, a broken sob following Richie’s name.

Richie pulls away from Eddie’s cock. It’s messy how some of Eddie’s come ends up on his glasses, on his eyelids, but most landing on his lips and dripping down his chin, but Richie doesn’t mind it one bit.

Eddie looks like the most beautiful fucking mess that Richie has ever seen. Hickeys dot his neck like fucking constellations, mussed up hair sticking to his neck with sweat, eyes glazed over and head lolling around his neck. He looks thoroughly fucked and Richie hasn’t even gone all the way yet, and part of Richie wonders how Eddie would look after they have sex— if he’d look like this or even more wrecked than he is now.

Richie’s cock throbs painfully in his boxers at the thought of Eddie on their bed, hair fanned out on their pillow with pebbled nipples and a fine dusting of dark hair across his chest, and he becomes painfully aware of his own need to release, so Richie slides a hand down to rub himself through the material.

“Richie, that was—” Eddie says belatedly. The way that the words tumble from Eddie’s mouth sounds like they’ve been rubbed between sandpaper and put through a blender, holy fuck. His words are cut off by a shuddering breath. Eddie lets his eyes close for a few seconds before he opens them again, catching Richie’s gaze, noticing the clouded look in Richie’s eyes, the way that his hands rub against the front of his boxers.

“Do you want..” Eddie trails off, “Can I help you with that?”

It sounds so polite and _formal_ that Richie laughs. After everything that has just happened, how Eddie can still be shy about this is so funny that Richie can’t help but laugh at it. Eddie’s eyes narrow sharply, glaring at Richie without heat.

“What’s so funny, asshole?”

“Eddie, you just— _came_ — on my face. And you’re asking if you can get me off like as if you’re offering to help an old lady cross the fucking street or something.”

“Well how the fuck am I supposed to ask you then, smartass?” Eddie snaps, “Hey Rich, would you like me to jerk you off until you come? Or how about, Richie, you look like you could use a hand with that.”

“Hey, that was actually not too bad. I could actually use a hand with this.” Richie grabs himself in his hand, unable to stop the shiver that shakes his body. He’s so sensitive right now, so hard with the need to come that he’s surprised by how he’s even able to have a coherent conversation with Eddie that doesn’t involve “oh my god, don’t stop” or “please, Eddie, jesus fuck”.

Eddie flushes even harder, biting on his lower lip as he sinks to his knees. His eyes search Richie’s for a long moment, hands hovering over Richie’s hand.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks quietly, nervously.

Richie nods fervently, moving his hand away so that Eddie can cup his dick through his boxers, tenting tightly.

“Oh _fuck_ , Eds. Fuck.” Richie mutters, eyes fluttering shut when Eddie closes his hand around Richie’s length.

“Gonna need to take this off, Rich.” Eddie mumbles softly, letting go of Richie to pull his boxers down. The way that the fabric slides off, inch by inch, makes Richie’s thighs tremble, each sensation going straight to his cock and burning in his gut, coiling there. It’s building, and Richie knows he isn’t going to last very long like this.

With Richie’s boxers at his knees, Eddie grips Richie experimentally, eyes darting nervously between Richie’s throbbing length and his eyes screwed tightly, willing himself not to come just from the heat of Eddie’s hand around him. His dick is weeping, pearls of pre-come leaking from the slit at the tip.

“I’m not gonna last long,” Richie breathes out. His body isn’t the only thing trembling. Eddie nods, although Richie doesn’t see it, eyes still shut tight.

Richie thought about this a lot. About Eddie giving him a handjob in their bed, the first time that he looks at Richie’s dick, about how he’ll wrap around the base tentatively, about how the calloused fingertips of Eddie’s hands will slide down the veins stiffly. In most of his fantasies, he accounted for it being Eddie’s first time engaging in a sexual act with someone else, and for that he always imagined that Eddie would be somewhat awkward and shy. Even for Richie, it had taken a few times for him to gain confidence in what he was doing, to move like he knew what other people liked.

But nothing with Eddie is ever expected. Instead, Eddie’s voice is confident and _firm_ and he says, “Richie, look at me.”

Richie’s eyes fly open. Eddie’s voice still sounds rough but it’s a command that he _has_ to obey— no way around it. Whatever Eddie wants, Eddie gets. If Eddie wants Richie to suck his cock in the toilet with his hair all over the floor, sticking onto the skin of his knees, Richie will suck Eddie’s cock as if his life depends on it. And if Eddie wants Richie to watch the way that he licks his hand, glistening in saliva, before wrapping it around Richie’s length again, Richie will gladly memorise every nanosecond of it.

With his hand covered in saliva, Eddie begins to move from the base to the tip, index finger swiping over the slit, collecting whatever pre-come on it onto his finger. There’s no hesitation in his actions, there’s no shyness in his eyes. There’s only hunger and confidence, like he knows what he’s doing, and he knows that Richie will like it.

Richie shudders painfully, whining loudly at the back of his throat.

Richie clutches onto Eddie’s shoulders, head thrown back exposing his Adam's apple bobbing with every difficult gulp of air. “ _Eds_ , holy fuck.”

Eddie brings his finger to his mouth, wrapping his lips obscenely around his fingertip in the way that Richie had wrapped his lips around Eddie’s cock moments before. And then Eddie _moans_ , eyes fluttering shut as he pulls his finger out from between his swollen lips. Holy—

“Fucking christ _._ Eddie. Eddie, please—”

Then Eddie licks his other hand and wraps it around Richie’s base, pumping it in a slow but steady rhythm that makes Richie’s body burn, tensing and arching upwards into Eddie’s hand, begging for something, begging for everything, begging for _anything_.

With one hand pumping at the base and the other moving up and down his length, pressing into the veins and then squeezing the head gently, Eddie leans in to Richie’s ear, nipping at his earlobe before he says, “Come for me, Richie.”

If Eddie wants Richie to come for him, Richie will gladly come for him. He’s spilling into Eddie’s hand, thrusting his hips upwards in unsteady motions chasing his release. His eyes fly open when he feels his climax pushing him over the edge, catching a glimpse of the look of adoration, of _reverence_ on Eddie’s face before he shuts his eyes again and rides out his orgasm.

Richie leans his head against Eddie’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Eddie holds onto Richie’s sides as he moves them so that he is leaning against the bottom cupboard of the sink, with Richie lying against his chest. One of Eddie’s arms— the one with Richie’s come— is thrown over Richie’s shoulder, palm facing outward so that the come doesn’t smear on Richie’s shirt, while his cleaner hand runs through Richie’s short but sweaty hair. Richie wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, snuggling into Eddie.

They’re both quiet for several moments. Eventually, Eddie wipes away the come on his hands using his shirt, grimacing as he does. He brings his hands to Richie’s face, pulling his dirty glasses away and folding them on the floor besides them. Richie looks up, confused.

“Your face still has my come on it.” Eddie says, pursing his lips in embarrassment. He pulls a cleaner part of his shirt from his body and wipes away the remaining dribbles on Richie’s chin and lips.

“How was it?” Eddie asks much later, when they’ve both settled back into their original positions. Richie leans up to give Eddie a quick kiss to the lips. Although Richie expects Eddie to grumble about kissing him with his lips that still has some traces of his come on it, Eddie doesn’t. He smiles into the kiss and deepens it, although it isn’t hungry as it was before. There’s no need to do anything but to enjoy the kiss for what it is.

Richie pulls away, but not before giving Eddie’s lower lip one lingering suck. “It was the best handjob of my life, Eds. You have magic fucking hands. Could come from it any day.”

“Was it better than what you imagined?”

Richie stares at Eddie like Eddie had grown a second head in the past second. “Eds, what the fuck. It’s way better than anything I could ever imagine. Nothing I have thought of even comes close to it. Fuck, Eds. You’re so fucking hot, licking your hand like that. I don’t know why I never imagined that, but this is definitely the hottest thing I will be jerking off to from now on.”

“We didn’t have lube here, so..” Eddie trails off, his fingers slowing its motions in Richie’s hair, “We should put some lube here. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?”

Richie snorts, “Eddie, you’ve done _enough_ planning for the day. Consider this a win. Plus, now I can keep that image of you coating your palm in saliva before touching my dick. Where would I be without this? This is enriching my spankbank, baby.”

Eddie gives him an unimpressed stare, “Okay, well, we’re going to get lube and some condoms for the toilet and our room and our individual rooms.”

Richie looks up abruptly with wide eyes, “You want to get _condoms_?”

Eddie looks like he wants to die. “Is it— do you not— it’s just that, I might forget about it? Like the lube.. forget it. Forget I said—”

“No, Eddie. I will not _forget_ that my boyfriend wants to have _sex_ with me one day. This is the biggest accomplishment of my life. The biggest milestone ever. Eddie Kaspbrak wants to have sex with me. Eddie Kaspbrak wants to have sex with Richie Tozier—”

“And Eddie Kaspbrak wants you to _shut the fuck up_.”

“No take backs, Eds. You want to have sex with me. This might be the best day of my life.”

“Can you at least try to raise the bar a little higher? Come on, we’ve been together for a few months already. If just knowing that I want to have sex with you makes this the best day of your life, then I’d be fucking disappointed.”

“Okay. This might be the best day of my life _so far_. How’s that?”

“You are such an idiot.” Eddie kisses Richie’s temple softly, if annoyedly, “I hope your pillow talk is a lot better than this, Rich.”

“I’m pretty sure that this counts as pillow talk, Eds.”

“Is there a pillow?”

“No, but—”

“Then it’s not pillow talk.”

“Pillow talk doesn’t work like that, Eddie. It’s just _talk_ after sexual activities.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s why they call it _pillow_ talk for a reason.”

“Alright,” Richie says, pulling away from Eddie to stand. Eddie looks up, alarmed.

“Where are you going?”

“To get you your pillow, obviously. Since someone needs a fucking pillow for this to be counted as pillow talk.”

Eddie pulls his arm hard, forcing Richie back down. He huffs, annoyed. “I can’t believe you wanted to leave me in the middle of our very intimate talk to get a fucking pillow.” Eddie kisses Richie’s cheek roughly, “Un-fucking-believeable.”

“Intimate talk. Right. I guess that’s what we’re calling this then. _Intimate talk._ ”

“Stop air quoting me, dumbass.”

Richie waggles his brows, leaning in to kiss the corner of Eddie’s mouth. Eddie sighs in frustration before turning his head to deepen the kiss, guiding Richie closer with a hand to the back of his head.

They kiss leisurely for a few minutes. Their hands continue to move on each other’s bodies, but it’s not the same as the hurried, urgent way that they moved earlier. It’s a simple desire to memorise the curves and hard lines, the little marks and dips in their skin.

When they break away at last, Richie’s expression softens as he asks, “Was it okay, though? Did you like it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, suddenly finding the tiles on the floor more interesting, “It was okay.”

“Just okay?” Richie says, “All of that ‘ _Richie, please_ ’ and _‘oh my god_ ’ and it’s ‘just okay’?”

Eddie throws his hands over his face, suddenly feeling shy about it even though they’re both sitting butt-naked on the cold floor. Richie grins, crawling nearer to Eddie’s face, trying to pry his hands away. When Richie is nearly successful, Eddie uses a hand to swat away Richie’s in the way he swats away pesky mosquitoes in the barrens.

“ _Yes_. Okay? I loved it. It was good. Wasn’t that obvious enough?”

Richie chuckles, “Just wanted to hear it from you, Eds.”

“Asshole.”

Richie smiles, not that Eddie sees it with how his eyes are shut tight behind his fingers. So Richie presses a hand to Eddie’s neck, the way he does when Eddie is panicking about something.

Sensing the change in the mood, Eddie spreads his fingers apart, peeking out through the spaces between. Richie pulls each finger away gently, until Eddie’s hand is off his face, and places that hand on his own face. Eddie’s hand is so warm against his skin. Richie pushes himself on his knees, kissing Eddie on the cheek, bringing his other hand to caress Eddie’s other cheek, drawing small circles with his thumb.

Richie’s face is so close to Eddie’s. From his angle, he can see the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks, brown eyes pouring into his own. He can see the way he’s staring at Eddie reflected in Eddie’s eyes, a look of awe and so much love, more than Richie’s body can contain—

“I love you,” Richie whispers, lips brushing against Eddie’s as he speaks. “I love you so much, Eddie. I wish you knew.”

Eddie’s eyes widen as his lips part in shock. Richie can feel the way that Eddie’s heart thumps harder, the way that Eddie’s held breath comes out in a rush. It feels like forever has passed before Eddie’s eyes are curving into crescents, welling with tears at the corner.

“I know, Richie.” Eddie says, voice breaking as he speaks, “Because I love you the same way.”

Richie isn’t ashamed of the sob he makes, or the way he starts to weep in Eddie’s arms. His already blurry vision without his glasses becomes impossible to see anything through the heavy tears that fall from his eyes.

It’s not the first time that Richie has said that he loves Eddie. He doesn’t say it all the time because it’s still something special to him. He doesn’t take it for granted that he found someone that he’s truly in love with. Everytime he says it to Eddie, Eddie always falls quiet with a look of awe on his face. For so long, Richie has always wondered what Eddie must have been thinking about in those moments. Was he shy? Was he nervous?

But this is the first time that Eddie has said it to Richie, and now he finally knows how Eddie must have felt in all those moments. Overwhelmed with the knowledge that someone loves them for who they are, overwhelmed with the feeling of being accepted by someone. Someone who you stumble upon in life, and someone who chooses to stay.

It feels so different knowing that they’re here now. Two unloveable people searching for love their entire lives, and finding it within their better halves. It breaks Richie’s heart that Eddie will never be able to understand how deeply in love he is. He wants to reach into his chest and rip out his heart and give it to Eddie, but even that isn’t enough.

He is so in love with Eddie, and Eddie will never understand. The same way that Richie will never know how much Eddie loves him.

Eddie wipes away each and every single tear that Richie sheds, with patience and love in every stroke of his thumb. When Richie has finally calmed down to hiccups, Eddie presses a soft but firm kiss between Richie’s eyes, on the tip of his nose, and on his lips.

“I love you, Richie. I wish you knew how much.”

“I know,” Richie rasps, leaning his forehead against Eddie’s with closed eyes, “Because I love you the same way.”

Their wardrobe starts to fill with longer coats, with jeans instead of shorts, with woolen sweaters and long sleeved shirts. It’s with a certain distant wonder that Richie watches the trees in the barrens and quarry start to turn slightly orange and brown, when the leaves get blown away more easily with their fragile bodies.

It’s Eddie’s birthday today, which is the only reason why Richie is awake when the sun isn’t up yet, pilfering from their little grocery shop even though it’s technically his as much as it belongs to Eddie. But being here without Eddie, taking items from the shelves without Eddie’s opinions on it, feels like he’s stealing.

But he has to, because there isn’t enough baking powder and baking soda in the kitchen (which, by the way, is such bullshit. Why do you even need baking soda if you have baking powder? Or better yet: what the fuck is baking soda even?). And there’s also no lemons in the kitchen.

Richie is going to try baking a lemon sponge cake. Eddie’s been having a lemon phase recently, squeezing some lemon juice into their water, baking lemon-flavoured cookies and slipping some lemon into their salmons and food as well. How, with Eddie’s recent obsession, there is not a single lemon in the kitchen, Richie will never understand.

As it is, he’s grabbing a bunch of whatever is on his small list, going through the aisle as quickly as he can. The plan for the day is to surprise Eddie with the cake in bed, which means that he needs to bake the said cake before Eddie wakes up, which also means that he needs that two hours for the cake to _actually bake_.

Following the baking instructions is easy enough. Although Richie doesn’t actually partake in Eddie’s baking adventures much, he has been involved in some of the mixing (something Eddie still likes assigning to Richie, instead of using the stupid mixer that he actually has. Richie suspects this has something to do with his biceps, even if Eddie would never admit it.) and he has definitely been involved in the cleaning up. Besides, Richie is not actually stupid. Before he decided to wash his hands off anything science-related in college, he was something of a Chemistry whizz in high school. So, he knows how to mix things together. He has a recipe, he has his eggs and flour, he’s good.

It’s just incredibly boring without Eddie.

Richie is sitting on his usual high chair, blowing raspberries as he waits for the one hour in the oven to be over. He’s currently at forty-seven minutes, which means that he has another thirteen minutes to kill. He’s spent half an hour washing up the utensils he used for mixing batter and all that jazz, so he’s spent seventeen minutes doing nothing. He’s got another thirteen minutes to do nothing.

It’s awfully boring without Eddie.

Richie sees why Eddie prefers him being around the kitchen now, even when Richie isn’t really helping much besides practicing his Voices or licking cookie dough off the spatula when Eddie isn’t looking (Eddie sometimes pretends he isn’t because he knows Richie likes to do it).

Ten minutes.

Richie thinks about the mixer in the cupboard, because it was an addition made to the kitchen when Richie was gone for those few years. He thinks about how quiet the kitchen must have been in his absence. He thinks about how quiet dreamspace must have been without him here.

He doesn’t usually let himself go down this rabbithole, because it frightens him. The time that Eddie spent alone, the time he spent waiting for Richie.

He wonders if Eddie still thinks about it from time to time. He wonders what Eddie truly thinks about those five years.

Four minutes.

He thinks about being alone in dreamspace for years. He thinks about what he would do if Eddie was gone, how he would feel if Eddie had suddenly disappeared from here. He thinks that he would cry— that was guaranteed. He doesn’t know if there would be a point in staying in dreamspace if Eddie wasn’t going to be around.

He wonders if that was the same line of thought that Eddie had six years ago.

The timer on the island starts ringing. It’s a little chicken that starts vibrating across, looking a bit like it’s being electrocuted from the inside. Richie reaches across to turn it off, then to the oven to take the cake out with mittens that are slightly worn from years of use.

Well, the cake passes the toothpick test. There’s that at least.

Richie briefly debates decorating the cake with icing. Eddie isn’t someone who enjoys icing that much, but the cake looks naked as fuck— and not in the good way. It’s still rounded and brown at the top, cracking right in the centre. He isn’t really sure how he’s going to make it look nice. Art classes in school have never been his favourite, and he certainly wasn’t the teacher’s favourite student either.

He rubs a hand on his chin in thought, feeling the way that his stubble prickles his fingertips.

Nah, it’s fine. It’s the thought that counts, and all.

He sticks a large yellow candle in the middle of the cake, slightly off centre to avoid the vertical crack. The last thing that he needs is for the candle to topple on the bed and set their room on fire. Good intentions or not, Eddie would _kill_ him, then bring him back to life just to kill him again. There’s no doubt about that.

Richie is carrying the cake with two hands, carefully walking past the white nothingness of dreamspace to their room. When he gets a hand on the handle and pushes it down, he hears a noise.

 _Beep_.

It’s strange and foreign. He’s never heard it in dreamspace before. It reminds him of the way that he heard someone crying weeks ago while he was peeing in the en suite bathroom. It’s distorted and faint when it reaches Richie’s ears, but this one is even stranger in how mechanical it is. Like an alarm.

Maybe Eddie’s alarm is ringing. Well, then he’s in good time because the cake is here and Eddie is going to wake.

Creeping into their room, Eddie is still snoring in the bed, hair tousled and hands under the pillow.

_Beep._

Eddie has never been a heavy sleeper. That’s not to say that he sleeps lightly either, but he wakes easily when Richie calls. This makes it easy for Richie to sneak into their room and sit on Eddie’s side of the bed. The bed sinks slightly to the right, which causes Eddie to stir from his sleep. But what makes Eddie really wake up is when Richie starts singing.

“Happy birthday to you,” Richie whispers. He’s holding the cake with one hand while the other holds a lighter, flicking it on expertly and lighting the candle. The lump under the blankets shifts and Eddie turns around blearily, still muddled with sleep. “Happy birthday to you.”

Eddie pokes his head out, blinking hard, “Richie?”

Richie smiles, lowering the cake to Eddie’s eye level, “Happy birthday to Eds Spagheds.”

Eddie shoots him the look. Richie knows that by now, Eddie’s pretty much used to being called Eds. It’s only when Richie starts calling him by other less flattering nicknames, like Eddie Spaghetti or variations of it, that Eddie gets annoyed. But Richie still does it anyway, because it’s always fun to poke Eddie into another round of banter.

“Happy birthday to you.” Richie sings finish, “Make a wish, babe.”

“I wish that you’d stop calling me Eddie Spaghetti.” Eddie says flatly, “That’s the most asinine nickname that you’ve ever come up with.”

“Eds, you can’t just _say_ your wish out loud. It’ll never come true like that.”

“It’s not like wishing it secretly in my heart would make it come true, either.” Eddie points out, glaring at him from the side, “Now shut up, I’m trying to make a wish.”

“You can only make one wish, though.” Richie says, “And you already made your wish.”

“That wasn’t my—” Eddie sighs tiredly, a new record considering that he’s only just woken up a minute ago, “That wasn’t my fucking wish, Richie.”

“Aha, I knew it! You actually like being called Eddie Spaghetti. You don’t actually want me to stop calling you Eds Spagheds.”

“Richie Tozier, you are insufferable.” Eddie says. He turns his face towards the cake, closing his eyes for a few seconds in silence before blowing out the candle. The flame flickers violently before it comes back to life, burning more intensely than before.

Eddie cocks his head to face Richie with a deadpan expression, “A magic candle? Really?”

Richie grins cheekily, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s cheek. “Only the best for my Eds.”

Eddie huffs, narrowing his eyes at the candle. “You are such a turd.” he says plainly, blowing aggressively on the candle. When the flame extinguishes properly this time, Eddie side glances at Richie again, “Insufferable.”

“Happy birthday baby,” Richie says, wiggling closer to Eddie so that their thighs are flushed, “I just wanna say that if you wished for a very specific scenario to try, you’re going to have to tell me. Because as much as I want to be able to read your mind, I can’t. And your very specific fantasies will probably never become a reality if you don’t tell me.”

“I didn’t make a fucking sex wish, Richie. What the fuck.” Eddie hisses, slapping Richie’s arm. “Besides, didn’t you just say that I’m not supposed to tell you about what I wished for? Since apparently, if I do, it will never come true?”

“Yeah, but like. I mean, if it’s about sex or something that I can do.” Richie smirks at Eddie, “I’m sure that I can find a way to make it come true.”

“Deplorable.” Eddie says, unamused. Richie laughs softly, kissing the top of Eddie’s ruffled hair. Eddie leans up towards Richie, closing his eyes with a hint of a smile on his lips. They lean against each other for several more seconds, enjoying the quiet between them before Eddie breaks the silence with thinly veiled laughter in his voice, “And no, Richie, it wasn’t a sex wish.”

Richie hums, peeking down at Eddie, “Am I allowed to know what it was?”

“Maybe.” Eddie says, kissing Richie’s shoulder with a playful glint in his eye. “Make a guess and maybe I’ll tell you.”

Even though Richie likes making people guess things, he doesn’t actually like guessing things himself. It’s his impatience and overwhelming curiosity that kills the joy for him. But because it’s Eddie who is asking him, Richie decides to indulge his boyfriend’s playfulness.

Richie hums again, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “Does it involve me?”

“Yes.”

“Does it involve anyone else?”

Eddie scrunches his face, “No.”

“Hmm,” Richie says, “I give up.”

“Already?” Eddie snorts, rolling his eyes, “Weak.”

“You said make a guess. ‘A’ as in singular. And besides, there’s literally a million and one things that you could have wished for that involves me. Am I supposed to run through the whole list?”

“Not really,” Eddie says, “There isn’t a million and one things that I could have wished for.” Eddie looks up with Richie with his eyes in half-moons, crinkles spreading out at the edge of his eyes, “Just one.”

“Just one?” Richie repeats incredulously, “What’s that?”

Eddie tilts his head to the side, giving Richie a chaste kiss before pressing their noses together. He has his eyes opened in curved slits when he looks bashfully at Richie, murmuring softly, “I wished that we can keep having this.” Eddie’s hand claps over Richie’s, “That we can keep being together.”

Richie chuckles as he closes his eyes slowly, smiling against Eddie’s lips. “Why’d you waste your one wish on that, Eds? We’re going to keep having this. You’re it for me. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s because Richie closes his eyes that he misses the way that Eddie’s gaze drops down, staring at their hands instead. The look in his eyes goes far away as he echoes, “Yeah, Richie.”

Richie closes the gap between them, leaning in to kiss Eddie deeply. When they pull away, Eddie is smiling at Richie with that sickeningly familiar, but still indecipherable smile— the mirthless smile, the one that he still doesn’t understand.

Eddie leans back as he takes a breath, looking like he’s about to say something. He looks out of the window, swallowing thickly with a crease between his brows. Obviously, whatever he wants to say is something that unsettles him.

It’s only when Eddie shakes his head— a minute movement— that Richie’s stomach sinks. He isn’t sure what’s worse: that he doesn’t know what Eddie wanted to say in the first place, or that Eddie doesn’t want to say it. A thought flashes through his mind, that even after coming so far and breaking down so many walls, there are still things that Eddie would prefer to keep to himself.

A more sinister thought occurs to him then: does what Eddie want to say involve him? Is that why Eddie doesn’t want to say it? Because he’s scared of Richie’s reaction?

But the thought disappears when Eddie looks at Richie from under his messy fringe, giving him a weak smile that’s more like the Eddie that Richie knows. The smile he recognises and understands. The tightness in his chess loosens.

“You’re it for me too, Rich.” Eddie says softly. It’s not with the same conviction that Richie had earlier, but it doesn’t feel like a lie, either. And for now, Richie is more than happy to take this.

Secretly, he thinks he’s scared of asking Eddie what it was he wanted to say, too.

The rest of the day passes in an uneventful fashion: they eat the cake in bed and spend an hour in the bathtub, gently washing each other and playing with the foamy water. Most of the day is spent reading books together, and Richie giving his opinions that Eddie never asked for but will never not welcome, even if he says otherwise.

It’s almost like any other day, but Richie thinks that it’s only because every single day with Eddie in dreamspace has been such a dream that it has raised the bar for what makes a day special. Every day with Eddie is special, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

All thoughts about their previous exchange flies out of his thoughts. It’s usually the case when he’s with Eddie. He doesn’t think about how strange it is that Eddie doesn’t say what he actually meant to say, he doesn’t think about his hurt, wondering if there were secrets that Eddie didn’t want to tell Richie. Most of all, he doesn’t think about how odd it was to hear the beeping sound, so eerily similar to the weeping he heard weeks ago.

It isn’t until he’s spooning Eddie much later that night that he’s staring at Eddie’s bedside table, looking at the chess book and small reading lamp that Eddie has when he realises something.

Eddie doesn’t have an alarm.

Red leaves, orange leaves, yellow leaves begin cascading down from branches with the persistent wind, littering the floor in a sea of warm colours that doesn’t do anything to ease the chill in the weather.

Eddie’s socked foot prods Richie’s thigh under the blanket. It’s movie night tonight— there’s no actual scheduling or anything, because even after all these years, neither of them still has any idea how time works in dreamspace, so it’s really dependent on their moods. Eddie called for movie night that morning, and Richie went along with it. Richie had called for movie night the past two times, watching a combination of Sex Education on Netflix (which Eddie had left a _lot_ of commentary on) and alien UFO documentaries, just because.

They’re watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind tonight— Eddie’s pick. Richie vaguely recalls Eddie mentioning this movie once, but he didn’t think that Eddie would _really_ follow through with it. But here they are, with a bowl of popcorn in their laps and Eddie curling into his side, watching Jim Carrey hold onto Kate Winslet’s hand as they run across the street in the middle of the night, away from the disappearing fences and houses behind them.

Eddie’s gone really quiet the entire movie, which could mean two things: firstly, Eddie could be focusing on the movie, which usually means that he isn’t thinking about anything. Richie calls this the brainless silence, because there’s no conscious thought going on in there, and Richie would never underestimate Eddie’s ability to look like he’s thinking about something while thinking about nothing specific.

The second silence is what Richie calls the brainful silence— because if there is a brainless silence, there has to be a brainful silence. This is the kind of silence that Eddie has when he’s thinking about something really hard, dissecting it in his brain and analysing it from all possible perspectives. This is the kind of silence that Eddie has before launching into either a very vague conversation— cryptic and mysterious— or a very honest conversation that sometimes hurts more than Richie wants to admit.

So when Eddie stretches across the bed to press the spacebar on his laptop, Richie knows that it’s the brainful silence that Eddie was having. The second thing that Richie becomes aware of is that they’re about to have one of those long conversations that he should be scared of.

Eddie freezes across Richie’s lap, finger still on the spacebar. There’s a little line between his brows and downward tug on the corner of his lip, which Richie knows by now to mean that Eddie’s thinking about how to say the words on his mind.

Richie’s hand lands on the small of Eddie’s back, grounding him to the present. It startles Eddie, who jumps slightly under the touch.

Richie cocks a brow, trying for a casual, “Everything alright, Eds?”

Instead of replying, Eddie looks down. His brows draw closer together, which is starting to worry Richie. Lots of different thoughts fly through Richie’s head, wondering what Eddie’s thinking about. If there is one thing that Richie should have known by now, it is that he shouldn’t ever expect anything conventional from Eddie. But he still doesn’t expect what comes out of Eddie’s mouth when he says, “What do you think about the Matrix?”

Richie blinks once, then again because, “Uhh, what? Are you talking about the movie? With Keanu Reeves?”

“Yes.” Eddie says. There’s no follow up ‘ _what else, asshole?_ ’ or ‘ _obviously_ ’, which is how Richie knows that this is a very serious conversation.

“Uh.” Richie says, pulling his hand away to adjust his glasses. “Are we watching the same movie? I mean, I thought that this was Eternal something of the—”

“Yeah, but, just—” Eddie frowns at his hands, “I’m just asking, Rich.”

“Well.. I think the Matrix is a great movie. Very iconic—”

Eddie sighs loudly, frustrated. He rubs his face tiredly with a hand, sighing again. “I mean, what do you think about. Like— if you had a choice between the red and the blue pill. Which would you pick?”

“Okay, not trying to agitate you here Eds, but I kinda need a refresher. Which was the red pill and which was the blue?”

Eddie lies down fully across Richie’s legs, wiggling up to his lap. “The red one wakes you up from your nice sleep, the blue one was to continue being asleep.”

“Oh,” It’s Richie’s turn to frown in thought now. His fingers ghost Eddie’s forehead, light touches with the pads of his fingers. “I don’t know. We’re talking about a nice dream, right?”

“Yeah, Richie. The best kind of dream there is.”

Richie thinks about how he felt waking up in the real world, the feeling of being out of place where he’s supposed to be, the feeling of emptiness. It wasn’t a sad kind of emptiness that fills his insides, but the kind of emptiness that eats you from the inside when you think about things that should be there that aren’t, when you turn off the lights in the middle of the night and your thoughts are still running in place.

Richie then thinks about the kind of blessed happiness he enjoys here, in dreamspace with Eddie, and he thinks about the loneliness of being among his friends but still being _alone_. He thinks about the way that his fingers fit nicely against Eddie’s, the two full albums of photos slotted together in the little box.

He thinks about how he has everything here, and how much he’ll be losing if he wakes up.

“I think I would take the blue pill.” Richie says with a tiny nod of his head, confirming his answer.

Eddie gives him a confused look, moving his face away from Richie’s hand. “Why?”

Richie returns Eddie’s look of confusion with his own. He doesn’t understand: was Eddie upset with his answer? Was he looking for something else? If he was, what?

“Because..” Richie explains slowly, feeling like he’s walking on eggshells, “If I have everything that I ever want, why would I ever want to wake up from that?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, averting his gaze. “Just.. you’d know that it isn’t real.”

Sensing that the sentence hasn’t ended, Richie opts to stay quiet. Truthfully, he isn’t really sure what to say either.

“And, I mean. How could you live in a world that isn’t real, right?”

How could Richie live in a world that isn’t real?

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Richie asks quietly.

He could, if Eddie was there.

Wasn’t it the same for Eddie?

Eddie doesn’t reply. He looks away fully, turning his head away from Richie with a carefully curated blank expression. It’s the one that Richie finds he hates, well and truly. He hates not knowing what Eddie is thinking about, he hates the chasm between them.

The worst part of it is thinking that there were no more secrets between them, and slowly realising how one-sided that thinking was. He doesn’t want to admit it, because it feels like a failure of their relationship, but Richie’s known for a while that there was something else that Eddie isn’t telling him. He wanted to believe that Eddie would, when he was ready.

Richie was beginning to question if such a day would ever come.

Eddie glances back at Richie from the corner of his eye. His face is still as blank as before, without a hint of what he’s thinking about. “But you know that dreamspace isn’t real.”

“Why does it need to be real?” Richie asks hotly, getting frustrated by how none of this makes any fucking sense. They’ve always understood this to be _dreamspace_ , a place where they literally create shit with their minds and live in a world uninterrupted and untouched by the real world. They’ve always _accepted_ that this place was not real.

But despite that they’ve always had this between them, and it was something that Richie thought that they’d both accepted: everything else wasn’t real, but their love was. So what did it matter now that Eddie realises that the world they live in isn’t real? “Does it matter if this isn’t real?”

“Yes,” Eddie bristles, rolling off Richie’s lap and pushing himself up with a scowl etched on his face. “How could it not matter, Richie?”

“Why?” Richie raises his voice, grabbing onto Eddie’s elbow before Eddie moves any farther than he already is. Everything is happening so fast and Richie doesn’t know how they got here. But it hurts that Eddie is pulling away from him, that Eddie is trying to put distance between them. “Why does it matter, Eds? I thought that— we’ve always _known_ that none of this is real, Eddie. I thought we always accepted that—”

“ _None_ of this is real?” Something hardens in Eddie’s eyes, goes cold and cuts Richie off. He jerks his arm away from Richie, standing up and pacing away from the bed.

Shit. Fuck. That wasn’t what Richie meant.

“Wait. Eddie, that wasn’t what I meant—”

“Oh,” Eddie throws his head back, laughing wryly, “What did you mean, then? Pray tell.”

It’s the sarcasm, the bitterness in Eddie’s voice that cuts the strings of Richie’s patience. He feels anger coiling in his guts, rearing its ugly head. He feels his muscles tense, taut like violin strings. He feels blood pulsing in his veins, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches.

“Why does it fucking matter that none of this is real, Eddie? We’ve always known that we were drawing from our memory banks, and you’ve never said anything about it. Why does it suddenly matter that none of this— _any_ of this— is real? I’ll tell you one thing why it doesn’t matter to me, Eddie: because I love you. _That’s_ real. That’s the _only_ thing that should matter to you. So fucking what if none of this exists?”

“Because we’d be living in a lie, Richie!” Eddie snaps, throwing his arms up. There are angry tears welling in his eyes.

“Why is it that we always circle back to this argument? Why can’t you ever be happy for something that just _is_? Why do you always need to question if it’s real or not? I’m real, Eddie! I’m real! Isn’t that enough for you?”

“You think that you’re happy, but you know that all of this happiness is built on a lie, Rich. That’s what!”

“The thing is, I don’t think I’m happy. I know that I am.” Richie says quietly, glancing at Eddie. “Aren’t you?”

Eddie avoids his gaze. His jaw ticks. Richie thinks his heart actually starts tearing itself in two. All the anger rushes out of his body in an instant, leaving nothing but a dreadful cold that puts the harshest winters to shame.

He doesn’t want to ask, because he doesn’t want to know. But he has to. He needs to.

“Which pill would you pick, Eddie?”

“Does it matter?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Richie spits out. How can it not matter, when Eddie’s the one who sprung this question upon him? How can it not matter, when it’s where they are now? When they’ve built a life together in dreamspace, when Eddie doesn’t want to _tell Richie which pill he would take_?

“No, it doesn’t matter. Like you said— we’re here. It was a stupid question to ask, anyway.”

“Eddie. Would you— If you had the choice, would you pick the red pill?”

For a second, Richie thinks that it is nervousness that flashes across Eddie’s face. But it isn’t. Not nervousness alone. Nervousness and fear. Fear, the undercurrent driving everything out. It’s the fear that Richie thought they’ve chased away with the placebo pills and inhaler, but it’s still here. The same fear, but so very different.

“It’s hard to say.” Eddie says eventually. His voice is firm. There’s no hint of second thoughts there. But the way that he meets Richie’s stare suggests that there is something else that he isn’t saying. Won’t say. His answer is not the straightforward yes or no that Richie was expecting. It’s an unfinished thought, a comma in the sentence where there should have been a full stop.

“It’s _hard to say_?” Richie repeats incredulously, jaw going slack. Eddie narrows his eyes.

“It’s not that simple, okay? There are so many factors to think about—”

“Like what, Eddie?” Richie says loudly, throwing his arms out, “Isn’t it enough that we have what we have over here? Why isn’t this enough for you?”

“You don’t understand, Richie! Don’t you get it? That this— that _dreamspace_ — isn’t real? Why would you choose to stay in a dream, when you can just wake up?”

“Because you’re here, Eddie! That’s why! You wanna know why I’d always choose to take the blue pill? Because you’re here! You’re not there when I wake up, Eddie.” Eddie closes his mouth, clenching his fists as he looks down at his feet. Seeing Eddie’s silence, Richie’s heart aches like there’s a hole in there. In a quiet voice, Richie asks, “Why am I not enough for you, Eds? I’d choose to stay here if you were here. Why isn’t it the same for you?”

“It _is_ the same for me, Richie! You chose the life that’s better for you!” Eddie shouts. Richie falls back quietly. “We _all_ choose the life that’s better for us. Don’t you get it?”

“So what then? You—” Richie rubs a hand across his mouth, eyes darting towards the ledge where their photo sits, before looking back at Eddie with hurt openly written across his features. “Am I not the life that’s better?”

Eddie looks away. Richie doesn’t even have the strength to continue speaking anymore, but his mouth is running on autopilot now.

“You’d take the red pill? If there was a better life out there?” Richie asks desperately before his voice breaks, “Even if it means leaving me here?”

“Richie..” Eddie trails off, clapping a hand over his own mouth, “Dreamspace.. dreamspace isn’t real.”

“No,” Richie agrees sadly, “But I am. I thought that— I don’t know. I thought that would make all the difference to you.” he glances up before looking back at his hands, voice dropping as he continues, “I thought you loved me just as much as I did. I guess I don’t know very much after all.”

Then Eddie’s expression breaks open— _shatters_ — in front of Richie. His brows draw together at the same time that his jaw goes slack, lips quivering. Eddie is visibly deflating.

And for the first time since Richie’s met Eddie, he doesn’t want to fix it. He doesn’t have it in him to offer Eddie any comforting words or touches. All along, he’s always believed that even if Eddie wasn’t quite there yet, he’d meet Richie further along the line. It’s the reason why Richie was able to wait for Eddie to catch up, whether it was in accepting that they were real people, or that they were soulmates, or in verbalising their love for each other.

For Richie, the answer to whether he’d choose the blue or the red pill is straightforward: wherever Eddie went, Richie would follow. If Eddie was in dreamspace, Richie would pick the blue pill over and over again. He thought that Eddie felt the same, he honestly believed that given the choice, Eddie would make the same decision as Richie.

Finding out that Eddie had other factors in consideration hurt a lot. It hurt to find out that Eddie wasn’t on the same page as Richie afterall.

So much for loving him back the same way that he does.

The heavy silence between them drags on for what feels like an eternity, with Eddie standing away from Richie and Richie sitting on his feet on the bed, looking at his hands. For the first time in a long time, neither of them have the words to break the awful tension that has seeped into the room, displacing whatever warmth was there moments before.

Eddie picks on his fingernails again, eyes darting between the floor and Richie anxiously. He looks ready to say something, even if his chest rises defensively and his shoulders square back, anticipating a fight.

But then something echoes in the room.

 _“Oh my god!”_ Someone cries— it’s a familiar voice. Distant and drifting randomly, but Richie knows this voice like the back of his hand. It’s _Bev. “Stanley!”_

Then the worst thing that could possibly happen in this moment, starts happening.

Something in Richie’s stomach lurches, pulling him down towards the floor. Richie falls over on the bed, nearly rolling off the edge before he gets a hand on the bed to hold himself in place. Eddie’s eyes go wide and he’s falling to Richie’s side.

“Richie?” Eddie says worriedly. He’s pulling Richie towards his chest, trying to get Richie to look at him.

It’s not that Richie won’t look at Eddie— god knows that Eddie is the only person that Richie wants to look at. But Richie _can’t_ look at Eddie, because his eyes are rolling into the back of his head. His body feels far away from him, thoughts running at miles per second.

_Faint murmuring, a loud laugh at echoes through their room, and then. “It’s so good to finally meet you, Patty!”_

Oh, Patty is here. Stan is here.

And Richie is _here_.

“Rich? Richie!” Eddie is shaking him by his shoulders, a worried hand pressing his cheek. “Say something. Richie!”

The last thing he’s aware of is Eddie’s warm hand against his face. Then he’s—

Turning up to face real Jeff, breath slightly laboured with anger and hurt and the realisation that he’s left Eddie alone in dreamspace with an unfinished disagreement. _Fuck_.

Outside his room, there is more laughter, mixed with an unfamiliar one. That must be Patty’s. Shit. Shit. Shit. Richie can’t do this now. He needs to go back and talk with Eddie.

It’s not that Richie’s gotten over the pain and hurt from their disagreement— far from it, actually. He’s still pissed as fuck about it and the gaping wound in his chest feels like it’s imploding and sucking him inside, but he needs to go back and settle things with Eddie before he can face the real world with a straight face again.

Because even after everything, even if Eddie doesn’t love Richie as much as Richie loves Eddie, it doesn’t change the fact that Eddie is still the most important person to Richie. And Richie _needs_ , like how he needs air and water to survive, to make sure that they’re going to be okay. He needs to make sure that _Eddie_ is going to be okay, which means that he needs to go back to dreamspace.

It’s the thought that if he doesn’t go back to dreamspace now, he doesn’t know how much time Eddie will spend in there alone again (because who the fuck knows how time compares between both worlds?). It’s the thought of leaving Eddie on such a sour note that drives this desperation of his.

Richie pulls the covers over his head, closing his eyes punishingly tight, thoughts chanting _go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep._

He’s starting to drift back somewhere— he doesn’t know if it will be deep enough to send him back to Eddie— but it’s still not enough. It’s a common phenomenon that when people actively seek something, it’s more likely to evade them, and it’s something that Richie curses at right now. Besides the fact that sleep was getting harder and harder to fall back into with every passing second, Richie finds his own will to sleep interrupted by angry phrases in his internal monologue, by questions that surface without any way of burying again.

But what finally does it are the footsteps in the hallway growing louder and louder, ending abruptly outside his door.

Two knocks later, the doorknob is twisting open. A sliver of light pours in from the hallway into his otherwise dark room.

“Rich?” Bev says softly, poking her head inside. “Richie, wake up. Stan and Patty are here!”

Richie groans in acknowledgement, making no move to actually get up. Fucking fantastic. There was absolutely no fucking way that he was going to be able to fall back into a sleep deep enough to send him back to dreamspace anymore. The best that he’ll be able to do is to drift into a light nap that will do nothing for him besides waste his time.

Fucking fuck.

Seeing Richie’s continued inaction, Bev frowns, placing a hand on her hip.

“Richie, it’s nearly noon. We should be going for lunch soon.”

Richie grunts something unintelligible, muffled by his pillow. The door creaks open loudly with a faltering protest as it widens a bit. Richie’s eyes screw tightly together, praying to a god he doesn’t really believe in that Bev would leave him alone.

He loves Bev, he really does. She’s one of the best things that has ever happened to him, but he just needs to be alone right now. There’s too many thoughts in his head demanding his attention, and he doesn’t want her to take a single look at him and realise how torn up he feels inside.

Instead of hearing soft footsteps padding his way, he hears soft murmurs echoing from the kitchen. There’s no sound of Bev in his room, and the door hangs in there for a few seconds before the gap narrows again slightly. Quiet footsteps fade away, but the door is left ajar— the way it always is when Bev wants him out of his room.

At least she’s gracious enough about it to leave him alone for now. Richie uncoils in relief, thanking Bev in his heart for being so fucking understanding even when she doesn’t know what’s going on.

Because he isn’t ready to talk about this. Not yet. The only person he wants to talk to— _needs_ to talk to— at the moment is the only person that he’s not able to reach. Sleep isn’t coming back to him, but Stan and Patty are waiting outside for him. The least that he can do is to make himself presentable to meet Patty.

So with his heart somewhere in the pits of his guts, he drags himself out of bed, sneaking into the bathroom for his morning ritual— a futile attempt to put some colour into his face. It’s probably less about his hair and his appearance, but the dead look in his eyes that gives him away. He feels even worse than he did waking up yesterday— rightfully so. At least yesterday he woke up on a good note. Today? In the middle of their most serious disagreement?

Richie feels like a fucking asshole.

When he makes his way to the living room, Bev catches his eye first, shooting him a worried glance. He shakes his head just enough for her to notice, but probably not enough for Patty to see it. No, he doesn’t want to talk about it and he’s not going to talk about it. Bev reclines onto the sofa, sliding back into conversation with Stan and Patty although Richie knows that Bev isn’t going to forget it.

Stan, true to his _Stanley nature_ , is wearing a plaid shirt buttoned almost all the way, sleeves folded at his elbows and dark jeans with a belt, which was the only new change in his wardrobe. Richie had never seen this pair of jeans before, much less thought it capable of Stan to wear anything but pants.

But still, a belt with the jeans. That’s totally grandpa style.

The woman next to Stan— who Richie thinks must be Patty by means of elimination— has a small build and a smile with the innocence of a child. She has a bob cut that suits her heart-shaped face, wearing a cream coloured boat neck shirt with a flowy skirt that falls somewhere above her knees. Standing next to Patty makes _Stan_ look tall, and standing next to Stan makes _Richie_ look tall.

But then again, Richie is just objectively tall.

When Stan sees Richie teeter into the living room, he stands up, guiding Patty over with a gentle hand on her elbow. But when he sees Richie up close, he takes a step back.

“Wow, you look like shit.” Stan says without hesitation.

Richie’s mouth moves before he even registers himself speaking. “It’s nice to get that vote of confidence from someone who just updated his wardrobe from the middle ages.”

Stan grumbles under his breath, huffing irritably as he pulls Richie in for a quick hug that can’t even be considered as a hug. It’s a light press of their bodies with a simple tap on the back. It’s classic Stan: always aiming to be polite with minimal body contact.

But just because he hasn’t seen Stan in for _ever_ (and also because of who he is as a person), Richie wraps a strong arm around Stan’s shoulder, locking him in the hug for seconds longer than Stan’s ideal hug would last. Stan yelps at the force of the hug, giving Richie a dirty glare when he lets go.

“Oh, I see what you mean now.” Patty says to Stan with a suppressed smile. She’s looking up at Richie with a really lovely smile, and it makes his heart warm and rest easier despite the way that it’s still strung up tightly over his argument with Eddie. Patty’s voice is like smooth velvet that reminds Richie of the way his mother used to calm him when he got angry about something trivial.

It’s nice. Patty is a lovely person, and Richie likes her already. She looks like a perfect match for someone like Stan.

Richie looks between Patty and Stan, scandalised. “You’ve been talking about _me_?”

Patty meets Stan’s exasperated look with an apologetic smile, “Just the good things, mostly.”

Richie scoffs, “Yeah, right. The day that Stan sings my praises will be the day that I get my shit together. And, yes, FYI, that’s fucking impossible. In case you were wondering.”

“It’s only impossible because you refuse to grow up.” Stan says.

Bev nods from the couch, sipping on a cup of coffee. “He’s right.”

“Fucking traitors,” Richie says resentfully, “Can’t believe I forgot about you guys fucking ganging up on poor old me when you’re together.”

Bev rolls her eyes, opting to drink her coffee instead. Patty laughs softly behind a hand, looking amusedly between Richie and Stan. Richie doesn’t know what she’s heard about him, but she doesn’t look very surprised by their dynamic. Rather, it looks like she’s been expecting it.

It’s honestly something that Richie still needs some getting used to— people talking about him to others. In a _good_ way. Back in Derry, all he knew was that there were bad rumours floating around about him. He’d grown used to deflecting all of them, had grown used to telling himself that he doesn’t care what others think of him.

It wasn’t true, of course. He still cared to some extent. Richie doesn’t understand how other people are able to completely detach themselves from talk about them. And that’s also why it kept hurting him to stay in Derry, where people’s gazes shifted and conversation stopped when he turned the corner.

Now, it’s still difficult to know that people talk about him, even if it isn’t malicious.

Patty steps forward, offering a small hand to Richie. To be fair, everything about Patty was small and delicate.

“I’m Patricia Blum, but you can just call me Patty. It’s easier.”

Richie grabbed her hand in a firm handshake. He’s just glad that his palms aren’t sweaty. “I’m Richie Tozier. But you can just call me Richie.”

“Or you can call him a nuisance.” Stan adds.

Bev snorts into her coffee from behind. Richie flips her off without turning back.

“Oh okay. Trash the trashmouth. I get it. At least I’m not the one wearing a belt with those jeans.”

“Richie,” Bev says sternly, walking off the couch to whack his arm, “I think it suits Stan.” she says, directing a warm smile towards Stan.

“I think you look cute, babylove.” Patty says, standing on tiptoes to kiss Stan’s cheeks. For a moment, Stan’s face remains the indifferent face that Richie has grown so used to. But then the beginnings of a small smile begins blooming across his thin lips, the blankness on his face washed away by a look of bliss.

And more importantly: babylove? _Babylove_? Stan and Patty’s nickname for each other is _babylove_? What the fuck. That’s simultaneously the sweetest yet most disgusting thing that Richie’s ever heard.

Of _course_ fucking Stanley couldn’t just stick to petnames like ‘baby’ or ‘babe’ like normal people do. Babylove? That’s so fucking sweet that Richie can’t even bring himself to make fun of it, but it’s also disgusting because it’s _Stan_ — the guy who has the emotional range of a teaspoon.

God fucking damn it. Even Stan is more romantic than Richie. That’s how pathetic his love life has become.

They take a ten minute walk over to the only cafe that’s worth eating at. It’s cheap with big portions of food that _actually_ tastes good. The best part of it is that it’s hidden away in the smaller streets, which makes it emptier than other cafes that are less worth the buck.

Ben joins them after their food has arrived, spilling apologies for being late because he had to help his classmate pack his studio. It’s not his problem that his classmate was lazy in packing up slowly over the last few days, but it’s _Ben_. The guy’s basically a walking heart of gold. He’s never going to not help where he can.

Ben slides into the booth seat next to Richie, doing a poorly concealed double-take once again. At least this time, Ben doesn’t comment on how Richie looks.

“Hey Richie.” Ben says cordially, offering a comforting smile. This makes Richie try to smile back at Ben, even if it comes out feeling more like a grimace.

“Hey Ben.” Richie replies, which is probably how Ben knows that Richie is not okay. By now, ‘Haystack’ is Richie’s preferred nickname for Ben, and he never really calls Ben _Ben_ unless there’s some serious shit going on.

Ben looks struck by the name as well, although he doesn’t comment on it either. He graciously flips the menu open, even though he’s been here enough to know what he’s going to order already. The three of them never really change their orders.

Richie tunes out of the conversation for most of the time that they spend in the cafe. He’s still hearing what they say, sure, but he’s not really listening to it. The thoughts he buried since he woke up until now have dragged themselves up again, and this time their demands to be heard can no longer be ignored.

Sitting with Stan and Patty, and Bev and Ben makes things worse. It’s not just how cute both pairs look with each other, always leaning against one another or exchanging sweet commentary and little jokes. It’s also a reminder of how Richie had this— _has_ this— in dreamspace. It’s a reminder that he has a soulmate, too.

The only difference is that while the two couples next to him are definitely in love with each other, Richie doesn’t know if Eddie is in love with him anymore.

It’s only when Bev laughs sharply, clapping her hands together, that Richie snaps out of his depressing thoughts.

“You were a Philosophy major?” Bev asks Patty. Patty nods, shrinking under the attention. Patty tucks a lock of her hair behind her ears, looking up at Stan with crescent eyes.

“Yeah,” Patty giggles under a hand, “I really enjoyed my major.”

“Wow,” Richie snorts, looking between Stan and Patty, “How’d you end up with _him_?”

Stan gives him a tired glare, sipping on his warm water. Patty laughs it off. “I guess opposites attract?”

Immediately, Richie thinks of how neat Eddie’s room was when they first met. He thinks of how systematically Eddie goes about his chores, how he irons out all the wrinkles in their clothes before hanging them in their closet.

Then he thinks about how Eddie had to help him to clean his room. He thinks of how Eddie has taught him to pack up after himself, to look after himself in general.

If his half-packed bedroom in this world isn’t proof of Eddie’s influence on his life, then Richie doesn’t know what is.

He swallows thickly, stirring his iced coffee without replying to Patty. Sensing the change in his mood, Ben steps in. “How was it? Do you have any plans for further studies in mind?”

Patty hums thoughtfully, tapping her foot against the floor. “I’ve applied for post-grad to several colleges, but I’m not sure if I’ll get accepted even if I’ve gotten a few letters of recommendations from my professors.”

Ben smiles, “It’s really competitive. Everyone seems to be applying for post-grad these days. I hope that you can get into your top choice, though.”

“Thank you.”

“What was the most memorable lesson for you?” Bev asks, putting her cup down to rest her cheek against her palm. “I’ve never met a Philosophy major before so I hope that you don’t mind me asking.”

“No! Not at all. I hardly ever get people asking me anything. They hear about my major and stay ten feet away from me.” Patty laughs, glancing up at Stan. Stan smiles down at her, covering her hand with his bony one. “Off the top of my head, I really liked my normative ethical theory class.”

“Sounds like something Stan could use.” Richie muses. Stan sighs as Bev’s lips curve upwards.

“Richie, I’m pretty sure that whatever it really means is very different from whatever you have in mind.”

Patty nudges Stan with her elbow lightly, frowning at him playfully before continuing, “Well, in one lesson that I enjoyed the most, we discussed theories of wellbeing.”

“Theories of wellbeing?”

Patty nods with a patient smile, “Right. There are 3 theories of what makes a life, well, a good one. In the lesson I enjoyed a lot, we discussed hedonism. I think that there are many different ideas of what hedonism is, but the one we used in class discussions defines it as happiness determining wellbeing. Simply, the happier you are, the better your life is. In that particular lesson, there was an objection to hedonism. It was called the argument from false happiness.”

Bev raises her brows in interest as Ben straightens up next to Richie.

“What’s that?” Ben asks, leaning forward.

“Hedonism says that the happier you are, the better your life is, right? This argument says that that can’t be true, because what if your happiness isn’t genuine happiness?”

Richie stops stirring his coffee mindlessly, although he doesn’t look up.

“What do you mean?” Stan asks, pushing back his glasses with a finger.

“An easy example would be to compare two identical people living in two worlds: the first world is merely a computer simulation, like the Matrix. The second world would be the real world. Their lives are exactly the same in both worlds, except that the first person is living in a simulation, whereas the second person is living in the real world. Holding the level of happiness in both worlds constant, most people would believe that the person living in the second world lives a better life than the person in the first world. Right?”

They nod unsurely, waiting for Patty to continue. Patty nods encouragingly.

“Right. If you believe that happiness determines our wellbeing, then you have to accept that both people have equally good lives. But if you believe that the person in the real world has a better life than the person in the simulation, then you’d have to reject hedonism, since happiness alone is no longer what determines wellbeing.”

A quiet settles over them for a long moment before Ben whistles lowly, looking around the table, “That’s really interesting.”

“Wait,” Richie says over Ben, looking up sharply with a deep crease between his brows, “But.. I mean. Isn’t it just intuitive for people to accept hedonism? Who in their right mind would reject the idea that happiness determines wellbeing?”

Patty blinks once, eyes widening. Of all the people seated at the table, it was clear that she had not been expecting Richie to have the most thoughts about this. She shrugs, aiming for something casual even if it looks slightly unnatural with the confused smile on her face. “Well, some people reject hedonism in favour of the other 2 theories of wellbeing. One of those theories says that what makes a life good depends on an objective list. Then there’s the question of what goes on that list, amongst many others.

“The last theory of wellbeing says that desire fulfillment is what determines your wellbeing. Simply put, the more desires you fulfil, the better your life is.”

“Isn’t that the same thing as what hedonism is?” Richie says.

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” the edges of Patty’s smile turns kind, “Well, there’s a small difference between them. Taking the earlier example, if you have a desire for your world to be real, and not just a simulation, then the person living in the real world would have a better life— just because his desire for his world to be real is true.”

“And this theory— that satisfying our desires determines wellbeing. Is this a better theory than hedonism?”

Patty falls silent for a moment, but when she meets Richie’s stare, there is a worn and faded kind of melancholy in her eyes— and it’s not for herself.

“That depends on what you want, doesn’t it?”

They take a walk around the neighbourhood after they’re done with lunch.

Bev and Ben walk hand in hand in front of Stan and Patty, who although are not holding hands themselves, are walking close enough for the back of their hands to graze against each other. When their shoulders bump against one another, they’ll peek at each other with the hint of a smile.

Richie doesn’t remember seeing Stan so happy, ever. But it’s a nice look on him, Richie thinks to himself. In all their years together, Stan had always been so uptight about his emotions, keeping them in a box locked with chains around a padlock. It’s nice to finally see Stan come alive whenever Patty is around.

They go a few rounds around the park, because the weather isn’t too hot today that it makes them sweat. It’s a nice kind of balance when spring is slowly giving way to summer, and the air is still crisp with coolness even if the sun is high up in the sky. Richie trails behind the two couples, willing himself not to think too much about the body which should be besides his, about the hand that should be holding his. He doesn’t let himself look too long at his friends, either, because everything that they’re enjoying now is something that he had up until he woke up.

_“We all choose the life that’s better for us. Don’t you get it?”_

It’s the sentence that keeps looping around in Richie’s thoughts. That their world in dreamspace can still somehow be inferior to other worlds, according to a criteria that Richie has no idea about.

It’s true, though. Richie simply picked the life he’d be happier in, because that was what humans naturally choose, isn’t it? Ultimately, everyone wants to be happy, and they’ll choose the path that directs them to that happiness they desire. He’d believed in this so firmly that he was completely blindsided by the fact that happiness was not the only thing that people chased.

Happiness and desire are not synonymous to each other. Richie knows that now. Had he been chasing happiness while Eddie had been chasing his desires all along? Or perhaps that for Richie, Eddie had been both his happiness and his desires, whereas the same could not be said for Richie. Maybe Richie was someone who came along and made Eddie happy for a while, but what Eddie wanted was something real.

The thought of it brought back memories of that dreadful argument that they had at the barrens years ago.

_“Because you wouldn’t be real, Richie. How can a friendship be real if the friend is not?”_

Could it be that, even after everything that was said and done, a small part of Eddie still doubted that any of it could be real? That Richie was still just a figment of his imagination? A product of his subconscious?

His eyes start burning at the thought that all along, they had different expectations for their relationship. Richie had been building up for something long, something permanent. Everything— from the first meeting until their last argument— was done with the eventual goal of being together. He was so fucking happy sharing a world only with Eddie. He always believed that they’d share a life together in dreamspace and then meet in the real world, one day. But he would always _stay_ where Eddie was. If that place was dreamspace, then he’d stay there for as long as it takes.

What had Eddie been chasing during all this time that Richie thought they were running towards the same goal? It’s clear that Richie isn’t the end all be all factor in deciding where to go, so what else was he weighing Richie against? Was their relationship something ephemeral for him? Was it only meant to stay in dreamspace— a place that wasn’t real?

All those kisses and touches, all the little promises and _I love yous_ whispered in the dead of the night. Did they all have an expiry date that Richie was blissfully unaware of?

He rubs away the stinging sensation in his eyes, dislodging his glasses slightly.

When the sun sets that night, it goes quietly. There’s no grandeur in its goodbye today as it fades away, sinking beneath the tall skyline of the city. The sky sheds its yellow and orange hues in quick motions, clouding itself in the shadows quicker than Richie realises.

Bev brings Stan and Patty back to the flat first, because Richie had forgotten to set up the air mattress in his exhaustion last night. He feels bad about it for a moment, even if no one blames him for it. Even if none of the others say a word about his unusual silence that afternoon, it’s clear even to Patty that Richie was bothered by something he wasn’t telling them.

Ben and Richie are carrying 2 cases of beer, waiting for their pizza takeaway orders when Ben speaks to Richie first.

“Hey Richie.”

Richie glances at Ben, then at Ben’s foot tapping the ground nervously. “‘Sup, Haystack?”

The nickname is back, at least. Relief pours into Ben’s expression as his shoulders slackens, huffing a small laughter under his breath.

“How’re you doing?”

“Freaking peachy,” Richie says nonchalantly, “Just that the peach is small and wrinkled as fuck. And when you bite into it, it’s just mush and sourness dripping all over the place.”

Ben wrinkles his nose at the image, “Wow. Sounds rough.”

“It is what it is.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

No, Richie thinks. “Maybe.” He says instead.

Ben turns his body fully towards Richie now, resting his arms on the table as he tilts his head supportively. There’s only a small upward tug on the corner of his lips, so faint that Richie nearly misses it the first time.

While he’s not comfortable enough to spill everything to Ben yet, but he would still like to hear what Ben has to say.

He’s once again struck by how easy going Ben is. There’s no doubt that if Richie were to keep quiet, Ben would let the subject drop until whatever conversation came up between them later on. But it’s also because this is _Ben_ , and he’s been there for Richie when his insomnia hit the hardest. Because this is the same Ben that worked fastidiously on his own models while entertaining Richie’s late night conversations, which usually ended up in them cooking pancakes for supper.

“It’s my friend, actually.” Richie says. Ben nods in understanding. Whether or not Ben believes that Richie’s said friend exists or not is another thing. But Ben nods along anyway, because it’s up to Richie how much he wants to disclose. “So, um, my friend is having some trouble in paradise. Spent the night talking to my friend about it.”

It’s a fucking shit lie because no one would go to Richie Tozier, of all people, for love advice. But at least this way, Ben can’t ask Richie for specifics that he’s not supposed to know. It’s a good way to keep things secret, while technically still talking about it.

Ben nods again with his lips set in a straight line, focusing on everything that Richie is saying.

“So, um, my friend had an argument with his partner. Long story short, he thinks that he loves his partner more than his partner loves him. Like, the level of love that they give is different.”

“And your friend knows this for sure?”

“Yeah, I mean— he, uh, they fought. And, well. His partner wasn’t willing to do the same things that he would. Kinda like, to my friend, his partner is his biggest consideration. But it’s not the case for his partner, you know? His partner was saying that there are other considerations he needs to, uh, take into account. When they make decisions and stuff.”

“Right.”

“And it’s just.. he’s really hurt by it, you know? Just realising that he loves his partner more than his partner loves him. It’s just a fucked up thing to learn. And.. my friend,” Richie inhales slowly, controlling his breaths behind closed eyes, “I guess he’s starting to wonder where they can go from here. If there’s— even a point. If they can even have a future together.”

“Why not?”

Richie glances up at Ben, “Because.. don’t you think it’s— shouldn’t two people in a relationship love each other equally? Isn’t it weird to, I don’t know. It’s weird— I think, if he stayed in that relationship, knowing that his partner loved him less.”

Ben frowns, leaning back against the chair, crossing his arms. “Hmm.” Ben says, pursing his lips, side glancing at Richie. “May I share some thoughts with you? Maybe you could pass it on to your friend, if it helps.”

“Sure, bud.” Richie says indifferently, gesturing in a vague ‘go ahead’ way. Ben presses a tight smile on his face, twiddling his thumbs around each other as he speaks.

“I’m not sure if this is the case— I’m guessing that it’s not a manipulative or unhealthy relationship, right?”

“‘Course not.”

“Okay.” Ben nods to himself, slowing his thumbs, “Before I met Bev, I had an ex which I loved very much too. We were together for 2 years.”

Richie pulls a face, not knowing what the relation between Ben’s failed relationship and his current failing relationship is. If this is Ben’s way of telling Richie to let go, Richie doesn’t know how he’ll be able to take it politely.

Ben continues after some hesitance, though it’s not out of concern at Richie’s silence, but in stringing his thoughts together, in saying the words out loud. “I loved her a lot, and I knew that she loved me too. She was someone who lived life unapologetically loud. She was boisterous, sometimes to a fault. She liked telling me what she loved about me, and she liked posting about us a lot online. That’s just the way that she loved.

“For myself, I preferred to show my love in smaller ways. I paid attention to the things she wanted, made sure she was taken care of. I didn’t say that I loved her half as much as she did, I didn’t shower praises onto her the way she did for me. But I’ve never been comfortable with expressing my love for her that way. I liked showing it to her quietly, just little things that I felt were important.”

Richie nods. There’s still that little puzzled frown on his face, but he knows now that Ben is probably taking the conversation in a different direction than he expected.

“Of course, I’m no longer with her. Sometimes she felt that I didn’t love her enough, because I didn’t say it enough. Sometimes I thought that she didn’t love me enough, either, because she never did the things that I did for her. We fought a lot about this towards the end of our relationship. We loved each other a lot— I know that we did. But what I didn’t know until much later on was that we expressed our love in very different languages.

“During the time that I spent with her, we always thought that love had a universal unit of measurement. We compared ourselves using different quantities, and we argued over things that we shouldn’t even be comparing in the first place. Now that I know this, it’s helped my relationship with Bev a lot. Bev is similar to her in the way that they live their lives, and in the way that they express their love. Even if Bev tends to pay more attention to the smaller things, her love language is still fundamentally different from mine. It’s something we talked about for a while, the both of us— trying to understand how we love each other.”

“So what you’re saying is that.. it’s not about how deeply people love each other?”

Ben laughs good-naturedly, “No, not really. I think it’s about a lot of things. I think it’s not just about loving each other, or reconciling differences in love languages. I think, at the heart of it, it has to be about respect. It’s about listening to the other person’s feelings, their own opinions and respecting them.

“I think that a relationship is often confused with love, and maybe that’s why we don’t always manage to work things out with the people that we love deeply. Love isn’t synonymous to having a relationship, and navigating those subtle differences isn’t something we get right off the bat. But I think that in the end.. it’s all about respect, isn’t it?”

Richie looks up in time to see the cashier packing their two pizza boxes and garlic bread into plastic bags, approaching them with a barely noticeable limp.

There’s a short window between now and when the cashier will reach them, so Richie says, “Do you think that a willingness to.. to work things out. Do you think it is enough?”

Ben purses his lips, looking briefly at Richie before he looks back at the cashier, “Well.. that’s something that depends on every relationship, isn’t it? But if two people who love and respect each other deeply choose to work things out, I don’t see why not.”

“Pepperoni and Margherita?” the cashier asks with a dimpled smile, holding the bag with two hands. Ben stands up, returning the friendly smile as he takes the bag in one hand. As the cashier nods and walks off, Ben looks back towards Richie, offering a kind smile while nodding his head towards the door.

“Are we good here?” Ben asks lightly. It’s not just about the food, but about their conversation as well. Richie returns Ben’s smile with his own shaky one, picking up the beer cases as he stands.

“Yeah. Thanks bud,” Richie says, “I think we’re good here.”

As far as the food’s concerned, it goes out in a flash. Surprisingly, everyone’s appetite was unaffected by their heavy lunch. Richie reasons that it’s probably more to do with the amount of walking that they did in the afternoon, working up a big appetite for dinner.

And as far as everyone else is concerned, it’s noisy and chaotic in the flat and Richie spares a moment of thought for their poor neighbours enough to remind everyone to keep it down a little. As soon as Ben and Richie take out the beer, _Patty_ is taking out a bottle of Johnnie Walker’s, surprising even Stan himself.

“What?” Patty says, smiling demurely behind her hand, “You weren’t expecting me to come here empty handed, were you?”

Which is how almost everyone gets tipsy or drunk on alcohol and laughter, flailing over each other in a tangle of limbs as they stubbornly choose to play Twister. Stan is the first one to lose the game, because Richie is a dirty cheater who decided to blow air at the back of Stan’s neck, where he’s most ticklish.

Unsurprisingly, the one who wins the game is Patty, because she’s done ballet for many years and despite being inebriated, her balance and flexibility still wipes the floor with everyone else on a good day.

Stan pulls her down next to him on the red couch, kissing her temple proudly. “You did so well.”

“Do I get a kiss from you too?” Richie asks.

“For what?” Stan asks flatly, dropping his smile instantly.

“Hey, I came in second place. I count that as a big win.”

“No.”

“But you can get a big kiss from me,” Bev says, leaning down to plant a wet kiss onto Richie’s cheek. Richie’s face pinches in disgust.

“Ugh, Marsh. Fucking gross. Please do not share your body fluids with me.”

“Who’s sharing their body fluids?” Ben slurs from the floor. Bev laughs, kissing his forehead softly.

They decide to call it a night soon after, because Ben’s out for the count and Patty’s not too far either. It’s only when they’re clearing all the trash that Richie realises how he hasn’t had a single drop of alcohol in all the time that he’s spent in dreamspace. Even whilst they were drinking, Richie has had far less than he usually would, which explains how sober he is at the moment. There’s a nice buzz going on, but not much else, which is considerably tame for his own drinking habits prior to meeting Eddie.

He smiles forlornly as he dumps the trash into the bin. He’d never noticed how much impact and influence Eddie has had on him until now.

Richie takes a stick from the cupboard in the kitchen and pockets the lighter, going to his room. He opens the window enough for some wind-drift to enter. Sitting on the table in front of the window, he holds the cigarette between his lips, flicking the lighter on with shaky hands.

He inhales slowly and exhales even slower. A thin line of white smoke dances from the butt. He slides the stick between his fingers as he looks out of the window, down at the empty street below. It’s oddly reminiscent of the way that the street in dreamspace looked like, except for the stray cans and plastic bags strewn around the bins. Dreamspace was never this dirty at night because there was no one else to make it dirty.

He lets his mind wander to the easy way that Ben touches Bev, casual touches on her shoulders and waist, little smiles pressed into the back of her head when she leans back into him. He thinks about the way that Patty smiles up at Stan, the way that Stan watches her stretch over Bev in Twister with a look of pride that he’s never seen before. He thinks of the way that his friends can hold onto their soulmates in real life, the way that they’re slowly creating a life together.

He can’t help the twinge of jealousy that blossoms in his thoughts. In another world, he has everything that they have. The difference is that he is here.

Richie wants this too. In the real world.

 _“It_ is _the same for me, Richie! You chose the life that’s better for you! We_ all _choose the life that’s better for us. Don’t you get it?”_

Richie taps his cigarette against the edge of the beer can, watching the ashes at the end flick off in one swift motion. It’s another thing he realises he never wanted or needed in dreamspace— a cigarette.

Bringing it to his lips, he ponders on Patty’s words, that maybe happiness did have a difference between dreamspace and reality. He thinks that he’s starting to understand it slightly better than he did during his argument with Eddie. It’s an undeniable truth that he was really happy being with Eddie in dreamspace. It was unadulterated happiness, something in its purest form that Richie doesn’t even dare to describe.

But being here, now, he realises that it isn’t enough to have it only in dreamspace anymore. He doesn’t want to have to wait to sleep in order to experience that same bliss, he doesn’t want to have to sulk behind his friends when they get to experience love in the real world with all its ups and downs.

He really wants to have something with Eddie in the real world, too.

He takes another drag when his door opens and closes softly. Richie turns his head to see a silhouette moving through his dark room, lit up only by the desk light he brought with him from Derry.

When the figure moves close enough, he sees it’s Stan.

“Staniel,” Richie says, tilting his chin in greeting. Stan makes a face at the cigarette, sitting on the edge of the table as far away from Richie as possible.

“You should open your window wider.” Stan says. Richie pushes one pane so that the gap widens.

“What brings you to my humble abode?” Richie says, exhaling. “Thought you were going to sleep. Is Patty asleep yet?”

“Yeah, Patty just went to bed. I needed her to drink some water before that. She drank more than usual tonight, and I don’t want her having a hangover tomorrow.”

“That’s nice.” Richie comments casually, looking out of the window briefly, “Aren’t you going to sleep too?”

“Well, I was going to. But I wanted to check in on you first. You’ve been acting strange all day.”

And because Richie is Richie, his first instinct is to say, “You’ve been _worried_ about me?” he teases, reaching out to pinch Stan’s cheeks which gets his hand slapped away, “Aww, Staniel, that’s real cute of you. Never thought I’d see this day.”

“Your defence mechanism is really something else.” Stan deadpans, “What’s been bothering you?”

“Why does something need to be bothering me?”

“Because,” Stan says exasperatedly, “You’ve been quiet the entire day. And you talked to Patty about Philosophy.”

Richie’s not about to dispute his quiet as something that _isn’t_ strange because, yeah, it’s fucking odd for Richie not to say anything much the entire day. Still, his mouth runs faster than his brain does.

“Rude,” Richie says indignantly, scoffing with an expression of mock-hurt, “I can be deep too.” Stan raises a skeptical brow. “Having deep conversations actually requires the other party to have insightful thoughts. I can’t be talking to myself all the time.”

“Richie, you literally talk to yourself all the time.”

“What the fuck. It’s called training to be a ventriloquist, you judgmental fucker. Besides, the point of it is that my Voices aren’t supposed to be me. Technically speaking, that can’t even be counted as talking to myself.”

Stan sighs painfully, because he knows that with every reply from Richie, the conversation is digressing further and further from the original topic. Instead of rising to the obvious bait, Stan says, “Is this about your dream?”

Richie’s smile falters. He looks down, tapping his cigarette into the empty beer can beside him.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Nothing about you is subtle, Richie.”

Richie laughs humourlessly, “Sounds right.” and takes another drag. Stan waits for Richie to exhale from his mouth patiently. “I dreamt about Eddie again last night. I mean— I didn’t dream _about_ him, I had another dream with him.”

A look of surprise crosses Stan’s face.

“That’s the third time, isn’t it?”

“Yep. You know what they say about third times. Should be a charm, right?”

Stan nods, unsure of where the conversation is headed.

“Well, so, I guess it was kind of like a charm. Guess what?”

“What?”

“Really? You’re not even gonna humour me by pretending to guess something?”

Stan’s reply is immediate, “No.”

“Okay, whatever. It could’ve been fun but I guess the grandpa in you hates having fun.” Richie grumbles, tapping the cigarette butt against the aluminium can. “Eds and I got together.” Richie says blankly, factually, “We finally sorted our shit out after years of waiting.”

Stan’s jaw drops, which isn’t much when you compare it to other people, but it’s an exclamation of his surprise. “Oh my god,” Stan mutters in disbelief, eyes widening as he takes a moment to process the words, “Really?”

Even if he was troubled with his own brooding thoughts, he’s never seen Stan so happy for him as he is now, and it reminds Richie of how happy _he_ was when he got together with Eddie, too. All the elated kisses, tentative touches and sincere words come rushing back to him in a second, and it dredges up the prickling sensation behind his eyes all over again. Richie nods slowly, clearing his throat, “Yeah, man. Really.”

His words washes away any last traces of doubt on Stan’s face. His eyes turn into half-moons and his mouth splits into a grin.

Stan moves forward, enveloping Richie in a tight hug. It takes a second for it to register in Richie’s head— that Stan is giving him a hug— before he wraps his arms around Stan’s broad shoulders. It’s the fact that Stan is generally averse to body contact with people that makes Richie so touched by how long they embrace each other.

Eventually, Stan moves away, giving Richie a pat on the back as he moves back with a fond look in his eyes.

“That’s great news, Richie. I’m really happy for you.”

“Right?” Even if Richie still feels like shit, talking about Eddie makes him happy. He won’t hide the smile that grows on his lips. “I mean, I felt really bad about it at first. He waited five years for me to return, and that was when he didn’t even know if I was going to come back or not. Not that I wouldn’t return if I could, but more like we weren’t sure how all of this worked yet. We thought it was a fluke that we met again the second time, so we didn’t want to push our luck.”

Richie pauses, wondering if he should finish his thought. He meets Stan’s eyes and decides that, fuck it, he needs to get it off his chest, anyway. “And— I’m still not sure, but I think that if I were to sleep now, I would probably return back there.”

Something clouds over in Stan’s eyes. He no longer looks as proud of Richie as he was a second before. Instead, he begins to look worried, suspicious.

“What?” Richie asks. Dread begins coagulating in his stomach.

“Well, why aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“You’re still awake,” Stan points out, “I would’ve thought that you’d be the first to go to sleep, if you knew that going to sleep would bring you back to Eddie.”

“Yeah, well.” Richie looks down at his cigarette, mildly surprised by the tower of ashes at the end. He taps it into the beer can before taking another drag, releasing the smoke in a messy puff. “We had a disagreement.”

“About?”

All the words come flying back to Richie, all the hurt in Eddie’s eyes, standing away from him. Richie blinks rapidly, trying to blink away the tears he can feel in his eyes.

“Something dumb.” Richie says curtly.

“Richie..”

“You wanna know what we argued about? We argued about _the fucking Matrix_. Yeah, that’s right.”

Stan’s looks away sharply, stroking his chin in new understanding before his gaze darts back to Richie. “So that’s why you were so interested in today’s conversation at lunch.”

“Well,” Richie says in a surly tone, “If you didn’t already know what you were arguing about, then, yeah. You’d be interested to know what the fuck your boyfriend’s arguing with you about.”

“Wait,” Stan says, holding up a hand, “What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean is that Eds brought it up out of the fucking blue, Stan. I was completely— _blindsided_ by how quickly it spiraled into an argument.”

“What happened?”

“What happened?” Richie huffs out a toneless laugh, looking out of the window as his jaws lock together briefly, “Hell if I know, Stan. Okay? We were watching some movie. It wasn’t even related to the Matrix. Eternal Sunshine of the something.”

“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

“You know that too? Well, whatever. Yeah, it was that movie. And he paused it all of a sudden, just to ask me which pill I would take if I was offered the red or the blue pill. I mean, we were in the middle of watching some other sad romance movie, so I didn’t think too much about it. I just said that I would take the blue pill, because if I could have everything that I wanted in a dream, then why the hell would I want to wake up from that, right? I’d have to be crazy to want to take the red pill. And suddenly, he gets upset by this— which is what I don’t understand. He said that if I took the blue pill, I’d be living in a lie. I told him that it didn’t matter if it was a lie because I—”

Richie stops himself, pressing his lips into a taut line to stop them from quivering. Stan looks down at his hands, giving Richie the privacy he needs to collect himself. It takes a few long moments before Richie is able to open his eyes again, before he can trust his voice not to break at the wrong moment. “Because I knew that my love for him wasn’t. I told him that I was happy with him, Stan. I asked if he was, and he— couldn’t give me an answer.”

Despite trying to control his voice, Richie chokes on his last sentence, wiping his eyes furiously. “I mean, why couldn’t he tell me that he was happy with me, too? Don’t I make him happy? All I’ve ever tried to do was to make him happy.”

“Richie.” Stan says, but Richie shakes his head. He’s not done.

“So, you know, I decided to ask him too. If he could choose, which pill would it be? And, the thing is that, for me? The answer’s really fucking simple. I’d choose to go wherever Eddie is. If he’s in a dream, I’d take the damn blue pill, okay? It’s just— that straightforward for me. And I—” Richie rubs his nose miserably, “And I really thought it would be as easy for him, too. But do you know what he told me?”

Stan shakes his head solemnly. Richie barks out a harsh laugh, throwing his head back to blink away new tears.

“He told me that ‘it’s hard to say’.” Richie mutters quietly, “What’s hard to say? Don’t know, apparently there’s a whole list of considerations to go through and I don’t even know where I stand on that list.”

“Richie..” Stan says disapprovingly.

“No, Stan. It’s not— it’s not fucking okay, alright? It hurts, okay? To know that the person you’d throw the whole world away for doesn’t feel the same way about you. And now I just— I keep thinking about all the times that he told me that he loved me _the same way_ that I do. It’s just fucked up, okay? That’s what it is. I always thought that we were on the same page and, surprise motherfucker! We are fucking not.”

“Richie,” Stan says, leaving no room for interruption in his voice. Richie looks back at Stan, surprised to see how fierce he looks behind his stormy eyes. “Richie, I’m going to say something that you may not like to hear, but I think you need to hear it anyway.” he waits until Richie nods his agreement before sighing, eyes softening sadly, “Have you ever considered that just because Eddie won’t pick you immediately, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t love you as much as you love him?”

This gives Richie pause, “Is this like a love language thing again?”

“Again?”

Richie smiles weakly, “Yeah, Ben told me about love languages earlier.”

“I knew that there was a reason I liked him.” Stan says jokingly, laughing under a breath before he drops his voice again, “Look, Richie. I don’t know much about Eddie beyond what you’ve told me— that he used to live in Derry. Even then, that’s not saying much. But I do know that you’ve been waiting a long time to fall in love with someone. And I also know that you have high expectations of what it means to be in love.

“But thinking about love, idealising love.. is very different from being in love. I see that you’re starting to realise now that it isn’t always easy. It’s not. But holding on to your expectations of what a perfect relationship looks like is only going to make it harder. Eddie is.. he’s a real person, probably. And he’s going to react to things very differently from how you envision it. None of this means that he loves you any less than you love him. Again, I don’t know him, but I know you, Richie. And I know that you have a tendency to romanticise some things, too. I hope that you can listen to what he’s really trying to tell you, especially when you have disagreements with each other.”

Stan’s right— Richie doesn’t like hearing it, because he knows that most of it is true. He doesn’t want to admit it, not when he’s already feeling so vulnerable and down, but everything that Stan said is what he needs to hear.

He never realised his tendency to idealise and romanticise things. In hindsight, what Ben said makes even more sense now that he compares his upbringing with Eddie’s.

Eddie grew up in a house where his mother consistently lied to him and manipulated him emotionally, making sure that he’d be too afraid to try new things and leave her house. He grew up in an environment where love was distorted into something unrecognisable. Where love came in the form of stunting your child’s growth and development.

Richie grew up in a home where his parents adored him, with friends that supported him through the most tumultuous years of his teenage hood. He grew up in a place where love was showered upon him everyday, whether it was physically or emotionally. He grew up in a place where love was given so freely, he’d grown to expect the same kind of love in return. Love in the same form, the same language, the same intensity.

Maybe Ben and Stan were right: Eddie could love Richie as much as Richie, even if it’s so very different.

“Do you think he’s angry at me?” Richie asks softly, “I’d be pissed at me.”

“I don’t know if he is, but my gut feeling tells me that he isn’t.”

Richie glances up tentatively, “How do you know?”

“I don’t,” Stan shrugs, “But I think he isn’t. You should be talking about this with him, anyway. Not me.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“‘Probably’?”

“Yeah, asshole. Probably.”

Stan shakes his head, giving up on arguing pointlessly with Richie.

They fall into a companionable quiet for a long time. The breeze through his window is slightly stronger now, ruffling his hair playfully. It’s late enough that most of the neighbourhood has gone to sleep, and there’s only the occasional crunching of gravel when cars drive by, or the sharp laughter echoing off from some place further down the street.

The silence between them drags on long enough for Richie to realise that Stan is still here, when he was supposed to be sleeping a while ago. It’s strange, considering Richie already poured his heart out minutes earlier. If that was all Stan had to say, he’d be gone by now. Instead when Richie glances up, he catches Stan worrying his lip between his teeth, avoiding Richie’s gaze. He does that sometimes when he has something he wants to say, it’s his way of worrying quietly.

“You look like you need to take a shit.” Richie says, taking a final puff before stubbing it out on the can.

“You look like the shit I need to take.” Stan replies immediately.

“ _And_ Stan gets off a good one. Well played.” Richie says, impressed.

Stan rolls his eyes, uncrossing his legs to cross them the other way. “Richie, there’s something else that you said that bothers me.”

There we go.

“You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific there, Stan. Not sure if you realise it but I said _a lot_ of things back there— all of them with some potential to bother you on some level.”

“I’m glad to know that you know that too.” Stan sighs, “No, Richie. It’s about Eddie.”

“Really? Couldn’t tell.”

“I’m trying to tell you something serious here. Look, I’m worried, alright? You said he waited five years for you in your dreams.” Richie nods, waving a hand to say _uhhuh, what about it_? Stan eyes him warily, “So, I’m wondering: you woke up and went back to sleep, and found out that five years had passed while you were gone. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“But Eddie stayed there during the five years. He waited for you.”

“Are you going to keep repeating what I said?”

Stan glares at Richie, speaking slowly when he says, “What I mean is this: why didn’t Eddie wake up as well? Why was he still sleeping while you woke up?”

Richie isn’t surprised that Stan thought about it, because he thought about it as well.

He doesn’t want to admit it, that this question resurfaces whenever he’s alone, but it does. As much as he tries to bury the question, as much as he tries to pretend that it’s perfectly normal to meet your soulmate more than once, to pretend that he’s the special exception in the world, he can’t keep ignoring it. What Stan is doing is just putting it out there.

It’s not just the question of _why_ he has more than one soulmate dream that’s been eating at him, it’s the question of where Eddie goes in the time that Richie spends awake. According to Eddie, he’s been in dreamspace for a long time, for _years_. Richie knows that it makes sense that time passes faster in dreamspace than the real world, because he knows that while he’s asleep, entire years pass by in a flash. That must also mean that in the time he’s awake, even more years pass by in dreamspace. The maths checks out.

But did Eddie really stay there for the entire time that Richie was awake? Because Richie doesn’t know what it means for Eddie to stay there since they met 3 nights ago, because Richie doesn’t know what it means for him if Eddie never once left dreamspace.

And that’s not the only thing that Richie has actively avoided thinking about. He thinks about Eddie’s unusual behaviour as well, about the weird cadence of his voice when they’re talking about something, about the way that the look in his eyes hardens for a split second. He thinks about the weird voices that drift into dreamspace when Eddie’s asleep, and he wonders.

He wonders if Eddie is hiding something from him, something that slips out only when his guard is down. Because if their theory about dreamspace is right— that the other person can only see what you allow them to see— then the evidence points towards the conclusion that Richie doesn’t want to accept.

Eddie’s not being honest with him about something.

Stan searches Richie’s face for a hint of shock or surprise, but when he doesn’t find anything, his own eyes widens in shock. “You know.”

“I don’t know about it, nope.” Richie says flippantly.

“But you’ve thought about it before.”

“Sure.”

“Richie..” Stan says disappointedly, “How long have you thought about it?”

“Weeks,” Richie says disinterestedly, looking back out the window, “Months, more like.”

“Why didn’t you say something about it earlier?”

“Like, what? _Hey, Stan. So you know that cute little spitfire that’s my boyfriend? Turns out, there’s some oddities in his behaviour. And sometimes, I hear these little voices too. No, Stan, they’re not my Voices. Would appreciate your input here, bud, thanks_.”

“Richie—”

“No, Stan.” Richie says over Stan, throwing his head up in a mix of exasperation and disappointment, “I don’t want to think about it, okay?” Stan falls back on the table, lowering his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it, either.”

“Alright then,” Stan says, not too kindly this time, “Don’t talk to me. Talk about it with Eddie.”

The easy quiet they shared earlier has been displaced by something heavier. Richie sighs, rubbing his temples. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly after a beat, “I was being an asshole. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Stan says, “You were being an asshole. But I forgive you.”

Richie forces a humourless smile to Stan, whose tight expression begins loosening in return.

“You really don’t want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Richie admits, “You’re right— I should be talking to Eddie about this, anyway.” he adds in a lower voice. Stan’s eyes flitter over him before they look over his shoulder, at the block of flats opposite. “Did you hear back from Bill?”

“Bill?” Stan frowns, fishing his phone out from his pants pocket and taking a quick look at it. “No. Still nothing. It’s strange, though. Whenever I text Bill, he usually doesn’t take this long to reply.”

Richie’s guts continue to twist with something unpleasant taking hold.

“It’s probably nothing. He’s most likely busy with school or something.” Stan says.

“Yeah.” Richie agrees hollowly, extracting himself from Stan’s arms. Stan observes him cautiously.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah. I think I’m just gonna— sleep. I should probably talk about it with Eddie, right?”

“Yeah, Richie.” Stan says supportively, “You should.”

“Okay. Thanks for being here to talk sense into me, Stan. Don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Probably making more dumb jokes to procrastinate the things that you _should_ do.”

Richie laughs, “Yeah, you’re probably right. Hey, let me know when Bill returns your call?”

Stan gives him an incredulous look, “Of course, Richie.” he says, like he cannot believe that Richie even has to mention this. Richie grins at him, waving at Stan as Stan closes the door behind him.

Left alone in his room with real Jeff, Richie removes his glasses to run a tired hand down his face. He doesn’t think that he’ll be getting a good sleep tonight, but god could he use one right now. He’d give anything just to have an uninterrupted sleep about nothing. To completely shut his brain down until morning comes.

Lying down on his bed, he stares at Jeff. Jeff meets his stare daringly, as if he were trying to provoke Richie into saying something. Richie hesitates, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth for a long second.

“Do you think that things will be okay?” he asks timidly.

Jeff looks back at him in silence.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Richie says, “I’ll never know if I never actually do it. Great advice. I’ll keep you posted when I wake up.”

Jeff looks skeptical at best, but what was Richie expecting, anyway? He’s always been a procrastinator at heart, so it’s only natural for Jeff not to fully believe him when he says that he’s going to talk to Eddie. But he is, he has to. There’s too many things that they need to hash out, and Richie feels like the weight of these unanswered questions is pulling him down, sucking him into a blackhole in himself.

With his eyelids weighing a ton of bricks, Richie closes his eyes, thinking about the fabric softener that Eddie loves, about the way Eddie curls into himself as he sleeps, about curtains dancing in the summer breeze—

Even before Richie opens his eyes, he can feel a weight shifting on the bed. Something turning around next to him.

Then he smells it. Sandalwood.

Richie opens his eyes meekly, just to scan the room quickly. Eerily similar to the first time he came back after years spent in dreamspace, he finds that changes are often subtle. The bedsheet beneath him is different from the one they had previously. It’s smoother to touch but the design remains similar in essence: planets and stars amateurly drawn. This time, it’s in black against an off-white canvas. Richie’s pillow doesn’t smell like him anymore, but it’s soft in the middle. Instead of sinking to one side in the middle, it’s evenly deflated in the center, the way that a bolster would deflate where someone hugs all the time.

Richie can imagine Eddie hugging his pillow in his absence. This thought makes him sit up on the bed, looking to his right.

Eddie is sleeping with his back facing Richie. His shoulders look more filled in, his hair looks shorter than the last time he was here. But now Richie can see slivers of gray in the nest of black. Eddie’s grown older in the time that Richie was away.

The photo frames on the ledge are rearranged so that the first picture of Eddie and him is at the forefront, as if it has been frequently picked up and put back down. The two photo albums are out of the box and neatly stacked on top of each other on the end of the ledge. The sharp edges are now rounded and blunt.

There’s movement from the corner of his eyes. Eddie turning around again under the covers.

Richie feels his heart lurch into his throat.

When Eddie meets Richie’s stare with his own sleepy one, he freezes completely.

“Richie?” Eddie says, voice husky with sleep clinging to it. Richie doesn’t trust himself to say anything, so he nods, hoping that it’ll say everything that he can’t.

Eddie pushes himself up on unsteady hands, hands trembling when he touches Richie’s face, awe spilling from every crevice of his own.

“You’re back.” Eddie whispers, drinking in Richie’s face with his eyes. Richie nods again. He can feel his throat getting clogged up, can feel a burning sensation at the back of his eyes.

Eddie looks older now. There are very faint lines down to the sides of his mouth, and crinkles at the corner of Eddie’s eyes when he begins to smile something shaky. Richie’s hand comes up to Eddie’s face, fingers tracing all these new lines, trying to memorise them, trying to see if he could see into the time that he was gone, when they started appearing.

Then, Eddie says, “Welcome home, Richie.”

And suddenly, all the questions and doubts that Richie carried with him into dreamspace vanish from the recesses of his heart. Suddenly, all the questions on his list lose their importance, because Eddie is here, and that’s the most important thing. It becomes clear to Richie in that moment that it doesn’t matter what Eddie isn’t telling him. It doesn’t matter if Eddie has other considerations in mind.

Their time here isn’t limitless— it’s a cruel truth that Richie had chosen to ignore. But as he studies the small changes in Eddie’s body, he realises that they’ve always had an expiry date in dreamspace from the moment they met. But Eddie is here _now_ , and he’s in love with Richie the same way that Richie is in love with Eddie, and that’s all that matters to him.

But it’s at the exact same moment that it becomes abundantly clear to Richie what Eddie meant. He is happy to be with Eddie, he knows that their love is as real as it comes. But they cannot live like this. Their love doesn’t belong here.

“Eddie,” Richie says, tears blurring his vision, “Eddie.” is all he can say.

Their time is running out, and Richie doesn’t know what to do. The weight of all his worries and doubts comes crashing back on him, fracturing his heart and shattering his soul.

Richie lets his forehead rest against Eddie’s chest when he starts crying, heaving ugly sobs with fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Eddie reels back in alarm, wiping away Richie’s tears as they make their way down his face. He wraps a hand around Richie’s wrist as he cups Richie’s face in the other hand, tilting their heads to the side as he tries to catch Richie’s gaze. Richie looks up with great reluctance, emptying everything into a single expression he hopes Eddie can decipher.

If the eyes were really windows into the human soul, he wonders what Eddie sees.

“Richie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Eddie talking about his trauma about his mother's lies and manipulation. Eddie gives Richie a handjob and Richie gives Eddie a blowjob (it's after Eddie gives Richie a haircut, if you want to skip it!)
> 
> sidenote: we are way, way, waaaay past the halfway mark and nobody is happier than i am, lol. next chapter will be much (!) shorter than the last 2 and thank god for that. also, sorry for the delay in getting this up, i had a _lot_ of doubt and insecurities writing this chapter (for many reasons) and just being so stressed out by it that i wasn't enjoying myself anymore, lol. on that note, i'll be starting my first job tomorrow! 
> 
> lastly, thank you J, for giving me a lot of relationship counselling; to prof. Z, because your classes are still the only classes i'd happily wake up 630am for (and what do you know, i still remember your lessons!); and S, for reading both drafts of this and just letting me rage at any time of the day :^(


	4. 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes out in the open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW in the endnotes.

_This is my way of saying goodbye  
_ _Because I can't do it face to face  
_ _I'm talking to you after it's too late  
_ _No matter what happens now_  
_You shouldn't be afraid  
_ _Because I know today has been the most perfect day I've ever seen_

_(Videotape, Radiohead)_

_“Hey, Richie.”_

_Zzz._

_“This feels kind of weird, you know? Talking to yourself. I mean— it’s different, talking to yourself with the intention of someone else listening. I guess that this is how you feel doing your Voices, huh? I never imagined.”_

_Zzz._

_“I guess this is also different— weird— for another reason. But, I guess if you’re watching this, then you already know.”_

_Zzz._

Richie is looking out of their window with his head nestled in Eddie’s lap.

Heavy clouds drift over in the sky, throwing a cloak of darkness over their room. It’s still bright enough to see features of the room that reflect the smallest sliver of light passing through the thinner parts of the clouds, but it feels almost like the early hours of dawn where everything is quiet and asleep. The tree outside their window that Richie has grown so fond of reaches to the sky with barren hands, begging for the cold to relent in a blanket of white.

Have winters in dreamspace always looked so desolate? Have they always looked so devoid of life, withering in a space left behind by the rest of the world? Richie can’t remember his dreamspace looking so drained of life. Even during the coldest days of winter when the Kenduskeag was frozen solid, it never felt as heavy as it does now. It was always warm and loud with life blazing atop the grave of snow.

It’s dreamspace, but it doesn’t feel like _his_ dreamspace. Not the dreamspace he knows and remembers— nothing like it at all. It’s a poor imitation, a replica spotted miles away.

“Hey, Eds.”

Even his voice sounds faded. It’s defeated and worn, torn at the seams and pulled in the middle.

Eddie’s eyes scan over Richie’s face. He’s still worried— understandably so. It’s hard not to be worried about a person who burst into tears a few minutes ago. But there’s also that little gentle upturn on the corner of his lips, the one he can never help when he’s looking at Richie.

Richie knows how it feels. He’s felt the same way about Eddie since he can remember. Even when they were still strangers, he had always been weirdly proud of Eddie.

“Yeah?”

“Do you believe in fate?”

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie replies easily, resting his hand on Richie’s shoulders, “It’s hard not to, isn’t it?”

Richie glances back at Eddie, “Why?”

Eddie’s hand combs through Richie’s hair in gentle strokes as he looks out of the window, staring off into the distance with a contemplative look on his face. There’s a moment when Richie wonders if Eddie heard him, if Eddie wasn’t thinking about something else, but then Eddie glances back down with a smile bordering between sad and shy. In itself, it isn’t a new look, but what’s new is the immeasurable grief scribbled hastily in his eyes.

Richie stares, and he stares, wondering if it had been there before, wondering if he never noticed it until now.

“You came back to me—” Eddie stops abruptly, eyes darting around the room before he closes them, looking guilty and ashamed to admit, “That’s nothing short of a miracle.”

With his breath whistling in the quiet of the room, the deathly stillness that seized them in its unrelenting grip, Eddie brushes back Richie’s messy hair from his forehead. Even in this touch, time had eroded the brashness that used to accompany this simple action. It used to be more careless, rougher and harder. Now, it’s a careful maneuver, fingertips ghosting over priceless possessions.

It takes a few more seconds before Eddie says quietly, “I wasn’t sure if you were going to.”

“Eds—”

“And.. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you, Richie. I was too much. I was— I was being provocative, and unnecessarily hurtful, and I’m sorry, Richie.” Eddie says, ignoring Richie’s interruption, “And the entire time that I waited for you, I just.. I wanted to tell you that I’m so sorry, Richie.” his voice wavers, “I’m sorry.”

Richie swallows thickly, wrapping his fingers around Eddie’s wrist gingerly. There’s something unbearably fragile about this moment, where Eddie is pouring his soul into a simple apology, that makes Richie want to cry.

He doesn’t want to imagine the time that Eddie spent alone, beating himself up over an unfinished argument. He doesn’t want to imagine the time that Eddie spent rehearsing what to say when— no, not when, _if_ — Richie came back. He doesn’t want to imagine the time that Eddie blamed himself for driving him away.

But he doesn’t have to imagine, because these are all things that happened while he was away. He just wasn’t here to see it.

“Why did you?” Richie asks at last, voice tight with emotion.

“Huh?”

“Why did you wait for me?”

Eddie’s eyes water as he presses his lips together in a shaky crooked smile, “Because you promised me,” he says softly, “In every possible world—”

“Every possible universe.” Richie finishes, equally soft.

Eddie’s smile widens, closing his eyes as he rests his head against Richie’s forehead. “Every possible universe.” he agrees. Richie closes his eyes as well, relishing the feeling of Eddie’s hands on his face, of Eddie’s warmth all around him, of being in their room, being with Eddie.

He spent most of his life in the real world searching for love, searching for his soulmate. It’s probably a one in a million chance that he had found both in one person. It’s probably a one in a billion chance that he had many soulmate dreams consecutively.

Maybe one in seven billion.

He should be happy about this— ecstatic. But there’s someone else standing in his thoughts. There’s another uninvited voice that lingers in the space he’s carved only for Eddie.

_“But Eddie stayed there during the five years. He waited for you.”_

And isn’t this understandable? To find the love of your life and hold onto them forever. Richie would do the same, he’d wait months and years for Eddie too. But—

_“Why was he still sleeping while you woke up?”_

Richie’s eyelids flutter open. His chest feels like it’s falling in, concaving into itself. There’s a big hole where his simple happiness should be, where the knowledge of being with Eddie should plug the gap. But when his eyes open hesitantly, and as Eddie pulls away just enough for them to look into each other’s eyes, he can see it now.

They don’t belong here.

Richie cups his hands around Eddie’s face, tracing the more prominent lines that leads back to his eyes, rubbing onto hard cheekbones where it used to be soft. Eddie’s eyes are slightly smaller than before, his nose is more clearly defined.

Eddie had grown older in the time that Richie was away. It was obvious. And although Richie hasn’t seen himself in the mirror yet, he’s sure that his face is no longer the same youthful, taut face it once was.

They’re growing old in dreamspace. Richie wishes that he was here to see all the little changes on Eddie’s face slowly take shape, so that he never realises how time escapes them. So that when he wakes up to Eddie’s sleeping face, it’ll be the same face that he saw the day before, and the day before that.

He doesn’t even get to grow old with Eddie in dreamspace. He’s a visitor in the little house that they’ve created together, a passing traveller that returns once in a while.

“How long has it been?”

Eddie averts his gaze, looking above Richie’s head. For a second that stretches into infinity, Eddie looks like he isn’t going to reply to Richie, so Richie rubs his thumb down Eddie’s nose, coaxing Eddie to look at him again.

Eddie does, but with a placid look that does Richie no favours in reading his thoughts. “7 years.” he confesses, voice dipping regretfully.

Richie can’t say that he is surprised. Examining Eddie’s face told him that it hadn’t been a short time. But still—

“7 years,” Richie echoes, his voice is a hollow whisper. “Jesus, Eds..”

“Richie—”

“And you— you waited.. 7 years for me?” Richie asks with his throat closing up, “Why?”

Eddie’s face pinches for a second. “Because I love you, Richie.” he says, “Because I love you, and because you’re my soulmate.”

But even as Eddie is saying this, all Richie can see is the way his eyes hardened years ago, the sudden edge in his voice when he’s speaking, the way that it was all a matter of fact, an eventuality.

_“But.. I always.. kinda knew deep down that you would. Come back here, I mean.”_

Cold, hard and calculated.

And even as Richie knows that Eddie loves him, he can’t help but to wonder if there was another reason why Eddie waited for him. If it wasn’t as simple as an undying love, a blind devotion to the person you love, but a calculated gamble that even the most risk-aversed person would bet on.

And even as Eddie is saying this, all Richie can see is the way that they no longer fit in dreamspace anymore.

Even if they weren’t children before, Richie has never felt the timer on their bodies as much as he does now. He feels the years slip away from them as he studies all the subtle changes on Eddie’s face, and how he’s trying his best to memorise it all over again.

He used to be able to see Eddie’s face in his mind clearly. It isn’t as simple as that anymore. There’s a lot of things about Eddie that Richie has to learn again, and that’s just his physical body.

Eddie smiles into Richie’s delicate touch, closing his eyes as Richie runs his fingers over his eyelids. To Eddie, it’s a gentle touch of love. A stroke of his thumb, a flutter in his heart. To Richie, it’s a feeling of loss. A stroke under his lips, a new tear in his heart.

“I love you, Eds,” Richie says quietly, in a strangled voice. He wants to complete his sentence, but it chokes him. He can’t say the rest of it without feeling all jumbled up inside, like he’s wearing a suit of his own skin, masquerading as Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak’s loving boyfriend. He can’t bring himself to say the rest of it without wanting to shake the whole truth out of Eddie.

_Why did you_ really _stay?_

His breath dies in his throat as his heart whimpers in its grave, buried under ten tonnes of bone and guilt.

“I know,” Eddie says with his eyes still closed. He takes his hands off Richie to clasp onto Richie’s hands, pressing it deeper into his face, nuzzling into the rough skin of Richie’s palms. “Because I love you the same way.”

When Eddie’s eyes eventually flutter open, Richie’s heartbeat hitches. There’s so much adoration in those brown eyes he knew so well, so much love that it smothers him. All Eddie sees is the man he loves, the man he’s waited years for; but all Richie sees is the man he loves, the same man hiding something from him.

If the eyes truly were the windows into the human soul, Richie wonders what Eddie sees— if Eddie sees Richie for what he really is.

_Why didn’t you wake up?_

If Eddie notices it, he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, Eddie pulls Richie down, leaning up at the same time to press their lips together in a light kiss, almost too light to be anything but their lips ghosting against each other’s. When Eddie pulls away, his eyes are cloudy with unspoken words that he wants to say.

It’s obvious, even to Richie, that there are things that Eddie wants to tell Richie right now. Because even if 7 years have passed, the contents of a book doesn’t change even if the covers are all weathered. Because even if Richie is starting to recognise the parts of Eddie he doesn’t know, it doesn’t change the parts that Richie does know.

_At least I still know some part of you_ , Richie reminds himself, _You’re still my Eddie afterall_.

Eddie presses his lips into a half-hearted smile instead, eating back the words that were one second away from spilling out. When Richie stares into Eddie’s eyes, he can see his own reflection: a man filled with doubt, with questions where his heart should be on his sleeve.

He sees himself wearing the same expression as Eddie— with words that he isn’t willing to lay down between them.

_“I.. don’t know if you’re seeing this now or— like, if you’re watching it at random. I mean, I guess if you started from the first one, then.. Then you’d know. Either ways..”_

_Zzz._

_“I wanted to tell you that— I’m sorry. I know, I’ve said it before. But I just— it’s never going to be enough. There’s never going to be enough ways that I can tell you I’m sorry.”_

_Zzz._

_“But it’s true.”_

Their nightly stroll through the barrens had been cut short by the sudden heavy snow, forcing them to retreat back to the comfort of their room. On normal days, before Richie began to have other thoughts that wouldn’t leave him, Richie would complain about the stupid weather being the only other thing besides time that they couldn’t control. Eddie would laugh it off, because it was Richie being intentionally silly and Eddie had grown to appreciate that sometimes.

Tonight, Richie suggested for them to head back.

“We can just.. create an umbrella?” Eddie suggested, partially confused by Richie’s sullen mood.

“It’s going to get heavier, Eds.” Richie said, nodding upwards. The both of them casted a glance up to the dark skies, with snow falling down haphazardly, increasing in intensity. “It’ll be more comfortable back in our room.” he said more gently, hoping to make up for ruining Eddie’s jovial mood before.

Eddie cracked an empty smile, squeezing Richie’s hand lightly. “Okay.” he acquiesced.

Eddie kept his head bowed the entire way back to their room, and it made Richie feel guilty. He hadn’t known that it was something that Eddie was looking forward to, but in hindsight, he was stupid not to have known. Richie had been gone for 7 years. Who would be willing to wait 7 years alone for someone, and not feel at least disappointed when their plans got ruined? No less by the person he was waiting for.

Richie sighs, rubbing his temple in frustration.

He just isn’t in the mood tonight. He hasn’t been in the mood to do much since he returned to dreamspace 2 weeks ago, and Richie knows that Eddie can tell. Richie is being quiet, he is being evasive and less keen on touching Eddie than he would usually be. He’s being pensive the same way that he was all those years ago on his birthday, on the day that they had their first argument.

And Eddie is acting the same way that he did that day— keeping a distance from Richie, allowing Richie to brood on his own.

Just a day ago in the real world, Richie was so sure that they had torn down all the walls of secrets between them. Now, they were both holding their cards to their chest, waiting for the other person to show their hand first.

Richie sighs again, more heavily. He takes off his glasses tiredly, wiping the clean glasses in his nervousness before sliding them back on again.

He’s already in their bed, sitting against the headboard, waiting for Eddie to come out of their en suite bathroom. It’s only then that Richie realises something strange: the room isn’t completely silent, because there’s a faint murmuring, and it’s coming from the bathroom.

Threading on tiptoes, Richie makes his way off the bed and across the room, making sure that his footsteps don’t make a sound in the quiet of the room. As he approaches the bathroom, he can hear the faint sounds grow louder and louder. It’s not loud enough to hear just by standing outside the door, but there’s no doubt that Eddie’s talking in there.

Who is he talking to?

Richie leans forward slowly, carefully pressing his ear to the door.

“..don’t understand.. talk to me? ..”

Talk.. to who?

It falls silent for a minute before the door opens with a muted click. Richie looks down at exactly the same time that Eddie looks up with wide eyes, about to step through the door.

Eddie furrows his brows, “Richie?” he says incredulously, “What’re you doing?”

Richie fidgets. Eddie doesn’t sound too happy.

“I was just..” his mind is in halves about whether to lie and say something else than _I heard you talking to yourself_ , but he decides against lying. Nothing good can come out of it, and he doesn’t want to push their fragile relationship any harder than he needs to. “I heard you talking to yourself.” he finishes lamely.

Eddie’s brows draw closer together. With his hair this short, Richie can see lines across his forehead where there weren’t any a few years ago. In that moment, he looked every bit the 37 year old man he is in dreamspace, and it scares Richie how jarring this Eddie looks against the memory he carries everywhere.

“Well..” Eddie trails off, looking uncomfortable. He shuffles past Richie, holding his arm in front of him as he goes around Richie so that his arm is strategically hidden in front of his body. Richie raises his brows, turning his body to follow Eddie’s strange posture.

“What’s that in your hand?”

Eddie looks down instinctively at the hand clutching something small. It would have been nicely concealed by his palm if it wasn’t for the way that the smooth plastic reflected the light in the room.

Eddie freezes, pursing his lips. After a moment of deliberating, he opens his clenched fist, revealing a small, black oval in his hand.

“It’s a thumbdrive.” Eddie says.

“A thumbdrive?” Richie says, looking between the open bathroom and Eddie, “Why would you need a thumbdrive in the toilet?”

“I..” Eddie begins, cutting himself off. For a split second, Richie can see panic grip him, tearing him in two: one part wanting to be honest with Richie, and the other getting ready to be defensive.

_Come on, Eds. Come on!_

But then Eddie squares his shoulders as his chest rises, and Richie deflates inside.

“It’s private.” Eddie says curtly.

Richie opens his mouth to say something, but catching the warning look Eddie gives him, he closes his mouth quietly. Instead, he stands in front of their bathroom, watching Eddie pull up a small box from under his bedside table, throwing the thumbdrive inside before pushing the box back into its original position.

He doesn’t know what that is. He doesn’t know what Eddie is doing.

He’s only a few feet away from Eddie, but it’s years of distance between them. He’s not in a room with the Eddie he knows and loves, he’s in a room with a stranger wearing Eddie’s face.

That’s the first time that they both realise that something has changed between them, although none of them acknowledge it. To acknowledge it would be to admit that things will never be as they were seven years ago, that they are not the same people that they were before. Young men in love, exploring what it means to commit yourself to another person in almost every possible way that a human could.

To acknowledge it would be to admit that their world is not as perfect as they always thought it to be, and it feels like a failure for Richie to even think about it. This is _his_ ideal world. This is the world he built with his fucking soulmate, for Christ’s sake. The world that they met, the world where they confessed to each other and started to build a life together. And it had all been so fucking perfect. It had been the dream that Richie had always imagined during the time between consciousness and unconsciousness. It had been the dream he had while he watched his parents sitting on the sofa together, with his father watching the TV distractedly and his mother knitting on the other end of it, a silence where comfort has faded into the background noise.

But something _has_ changed between them. No. Not something— _Richie_ has changed.

He’s no longer the idealistic Richie who thought that staying in dreamspace was enough for him. He’s no longer the Richie who believed that he was truly happy just staying in dreamspace anymore. In many ways, he finds that he finally understands what Eddie was trying to tell him the night that he left. That you can be happy somewhere, all with the understanding that you were living on borrowed time.

It’s oddly sobering to come to this realisation. Richie supposes that he’d been drunk on the feeling of love and happiness in the years before, and couldn’t understand that time was something that still slipped through his grip, no matter how tightly he was holding on.

It starts with a small seed of desire: that he wants to have all of this in the real world with Eddie.

He doesn’t want to just be in dreamspace with Eddie anymore, because this dream is beginning to feel like a fantasy that he’s growing out of. He wants to introduce Eddie to his friends as his boyfriend, as his _soulmate_. He wants to propose to Eddie and marry him one day, to wake up everyday next to Eddie in a little house of their own. He wants to adopt a dog with Eddie and call it their little family. He wants to hold Eddie’s hand when they walk down the street to get lunch or even a simple coffee.

He wants to have proper disagreements with Eddie about real world concerns, and then cuddle and talk it out for hours after their argument. He wants to learn what it’s like to compromise with Eddie in real life, to learn what it means to adjust his life to Eddie’s and to see Eddie do the same for him. He wants to learn what makes Eddie lose his temper in the real world, whether it’s idiots on the road or stupid people trying to cut his queue in the supermarket. He wants to be there to calm Eddie down before he explodes in frustration.

And he can’t do that if all they have is dreamspace.

And as Richie watches Eddie read his books with a pair of reading glasses now, as he watches Eddie skip stones across the surface of the running Kenduskeag, as he watches Eddie laugh at a stupid joke that he makes while they’re both brushing their teeth side by side..

_Why didn’t you wake up?_

He waters that seed of desire with darker thoughts and questions about why Eddie doesn’t wake up.

Because when he’s watching Eddie read his books, with his eyes focusedly going line by line down every page, there’s a part of Richie that wonders if this is how Eddie looks like in the real world, too. And as he watches Eddie pick up a new pebble, running his palm over the stone before he’s flicking his wrist, Richie wonders if this is something that Eddie likes doing in the real world, too. And as he watches Eddie gurgle water in his mouth aggressively before spitting into the sink gently, he wonders if this is something he’ll get to experience in the real world one day.

It’s always an ‘if’, because Richie doesn’t know why Eddie doesn’t ever talk about a ‘when’. He doesn’t know from which point during their time together that it became an unspoken rule to never bring up a ‘when’.

It’s all hypothetical situations, imagined scenarios that have no bearing on them as they are now. It’s all something in the far away future that they’ll never have to worry about in the present.

Except that it’s not.

Every day that Richie’s eyes catches on one of Eddie’s graying hair, or those days when Eddie slips into bed looking especially gaunt, Richie knows that the far away future they always spoke about isn’t so far away anymore, that the hypothetical and imagined situations start to feel more real than they did.

They’re not young men with infinite possibilities opened to them anymore. They’re ageing, and one by one those doors are closing.

_Why didn’t you wake up?_

And every day that Eddie smiles up at Richie, with nothing but a simple type of happiness and love sparkling in his eyes, Richie’s heart breaks a little more. It’s knowing that no matter how happy they are here, the happiness that they experience in dreamspace will never be the same as the happiness that they can experience in the real world. It’s knowing that no matter how much Richie thinks he knows Eddie, there’s something that Eddie isn’t telling Richie.

They can laugh and they can smile and they can kiss but questions that Richie doesn’t want to think about will always be at the back of Richie’s mind, slipping out of the growing shadows with a wicked grin.

He can’t do this anymore.

He wants to meet Eddie outside of dreamspace. He wants to meet Eddie in real life.

He spends an unproportional amount of time thinking about this. When he should be chasing Eddie’s trolley down the aisle of their mini mart, when he should be focusing on the smell of Eddie’s hair and the way they swing together in the hammock, all his thoughts circle back to the real world. And he hates it.

He hates that Eddie’s waited seven years for him to come back, and even when Richie is back physically, he is thinking of the real world. Eddie doesn’t deserve this. He deserves so much better than Richie is giving him, but Richie can’t stop the thoughts that plague him. He finds himself helpless to imagine the way that Eddie’s hands would swing in his, in the real world, even as they’re holding hands while watching Netflix in their room. He can’t help but wonder what Eddie’s morning routine would be in the morning as he sips on his coffee during breakfast, watching Eddie move fluidly around the kitchen preparing a meal for them.

_Why didn’t you wake up?_

“Let’s meet.” Richie blurts out after a big mouthful of coffee. Eddie freezes momentarily before he portions out the scrambled eggs in the pan onto two plates. Richie thinks that Eddie is going to ignore it, brush it off as if he’d never said anything until Eddie looks expectantly at Richie.

“What’re you talking about? We met years ago. We’re _boyfriends_ , dummy.” Eddie chuckles, looking at Richie tenderly.

Richie shakes his head, putting his mug down with both hands. “No, Eddie. Let’s meet in real life.”

The smile on Eddie’s face melts away gradually when he realises that Richie isn’t joking, that he’s being serious about them meeting in real life. It should hurt Richie that Eddie’s enthusiasm wanes at the thought of them meeting in real life, but what _really_ hurts is that it doesn’t— because Richie had been expecting this.

“Where’s this coming from?” Eddie asks quietly after a beat.

“Don’t you want to meet me in real life, Eddie?” Richie says, getting off the chair and walking around the island, standing in front of Eddie. Eddie looks down, refusing to meet Richie’s stare. “I mean, didn’t you ever think about how life could be for us in the real world?”

Richie picks up one of Eddie’s hands, sandwiching it between his own. With every passing second that Eddie doesn’t say anything— doesn’t even _look_ up— Richie feels his heart freeze over with despair. He rubs his palms over Eddie’s, as if it could ease the chill coming over his body.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love it here. I love being with you..” Richie’s hand stills over Eddie’s. He hesitates, knowing that his next words will change everything. They’ve never been said aloud, but it’s past its expiry date. “But, I’ve been thinking— I want to have this with you in the real world, too, Eds.” his voice goes an octave lower, quieter, “I love it here with you, but I don’t want to only see you in my dreams. I want to be with you out there. I want to grow old with you, out there.”

Eddie’s body is eerily slack, his head bowed, looking at their hands. There is no reaction from Eddie, which makes Richie nervous. Eddie, who is usually the first to snark back at Richie, having nothing to say may be worse than having something to say, however unpleasant it may be.

“You.. did think about it before, didn’t you?” Richie tries again. He tries to make it light, joking, but there’s an urgent hurt driving his words out, and it falls flat in the middle of their kitchen.

It’s a long moment of silence before Eddie shakes his head once.

“No.” Eddie says plainly. His reply is barely above a breath, but it feels like a roar in the silence of the kitchen.

Richie inhales sharply, feeling like he’d been stabbed straight through the heart. “No?” he says. His voice is shaking.

It’s what he expected, but _god_ — dear god, why does it feel so much more painful than he expected?

“No, Richie. I haven’t.” Eddie confirms, wrestling his hand away from Richie’s. Richie lets his arms fall uselessly by his side.

“What do you mean, Eddie?” Richie says softly. He’s looking down, because he can’t bear to look up and see the look on Eddie’s face, the things his eyes will tell him that Eddie won’t say.

“I mean that I haven’t thought about it. I don’t want to.” There’s a tone of finality in Eddie’s voice. The discussion is done, wrap it up. It’s over.

But Richie doesn’t want to let this die. It’s important to him, it’s important for _them_.

“Don’t you want to?” Richie asks, “Don’t you want to meet me in the real world?”

“What is the ‘real world’ Richie? Is this not real enough to you? Weren’t you the one who said that this,” Eddie throws his arms up, eyes darting wildly across the kitchen before they land back on Richie with fire in them, “Was enough for you? Didn’t you say that you were happy just like this?”

“And what about you, Eddie?” Richie snaps, taking an angry step forward, “Weren’t you the one who was unhappy with all of this? Weren’t _you_ the one who said that this wasn’t enough for you?”

Eddie’s jaw snaps shut. “I didn’t mean it like that.” he says in a clipped tone.

“Yes, you fucking did, Eds. Shit. You couldn’t even—” Richie pauses to take a breath, blinking back the angry tears in his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry now, because he’d be losing this. “You couldn’t even tell me that you were happy with me, Eddie. Do you know how that made me feel?”

“And I’m telling you _now_ , Richie! I am happy! I’m fucking happy here, alright? Is that what you want to hear? I’m happy here, I’m fucking happy here!”

“No, Eddie! That’s not what I want to hear. That’s what I _wanted_ to hear— fucking, _seven_ goddamn years ago, Eddie!”

“Then what the hell do you want to hear from me now, Richie? You have to tell me because I can’t read your mind even if I want to!”

“That’s so fucking unfair of you, Eddie.” Richie says, pointing a finger to the table. His body is shaking in frustration, and he can feel it in every nerve, every fibre of his being, “You can’t keep— you can’t keep doing this. Flip flopping on me like this. You can’t keep changing your fucking mind and expecting me to, what? To just follow your lead without an explanation? To just _accept_ that you don’t want to tell me what the fuck’s going on? You can’t keep doing this to me, Eddie! I love you. I fucking— shit, I love you so fucking much, Eds. I’d— if you asked me, I’d do anything for you! And all I want is a goddamn explanation! A fucking _explanation_ would be nice, Eddie!”

Eddie looks away sharply, locking his jaws.

“You want to know what I want?” Richie says, “I want to know why you’re always running ahead, why you never tell me what the fuck’s going on! You know what I want? I want you to tell me that you want to meet me in the real world! I want you to be as excited to meet me as I am to meet you, Eds! And I want you— I want you to _mean_ it! What’s wrong with that? Don’t you want to meet me, too?”

Eddie shakes his head in slow motions. “I can’t tell you that, Richie.”

“I’m your—” Richie looks away, closing his eyes so that he doesn’t start crying in the middle of their argument. He holds his breath for a few long seconds, releasing it in shaky puffs. “I’m your boyfriend, Eds. Don’t I deserve to know the truth? Don’t I—” he rubs a hand over his mouth harshly, “Don’t I deserve to know _something_?”

“And— what? Being my boyfriend somehow entitles you to knowing every damn thing about me?”

“But it’s not _just_ about you, is it?” Richie snaps, looking up with disbelief scrawled all over his face. It’s in the way his brows draw together in an angry line, it’s in the way his eyes brim with tears, and the way his jaw hangs in open hurt. “It’s not the fucking same, Eddie. This doesn’t just concern you, it concerns me as well. And, you know, I would like to be able to trust that my fucking _boyfriend_ would at least have the decency to tell me the things that concerns our _future_!”

“I can’t tell you that, Richie!” Eddie shouts, shutting his eyes tightly.

There’s a pregnant silence between them, colder than the winter wind outside, harsher than the words just spoken.

“Why can’t you?” Richie’s voice cracks, and his vision blurs with tears that have traitorously started racing down his cheeks.

“Because if I did, then I’d be giving you false hope, Richie.” Eddie finally replies. He’s looking down at the floor, but there’s a wet, derisive laugh that trails off at the end of the sentence.

Richie’s blood runs cold at the things that Eddie isn’t saying in that sentence. He doesn’t want to think that this is all it is to Eddie: a dream fling with no real meaning behind it. He doesn’t want to believe that everything that they’ve done together, built together, lived through together, means nothing more to Eddie. That all this is an unreciprocated dream of Richie’s.

“Eddie,” Richie says. He clenches his fist by his side, looking away. Out of the window, to the brightening lawn outside, to the blanket of white. Without his glasses on, it’s a blur. But it clears away when more teardrops fall from his eyes, giving it a few seconds of clarity before it goes blur again. “What does this mean to you?”

Eddie glances up, “What?”

“Is this just— am I just something that you’re— is this just something to occupy your time? Is this your way of killing time?”

Eddie’s eyes widens, open-mouthed in shock before he grits his teeth in anger. “What the fuck do you mean, Richie? You’d better not be saying what I think you’re saying.”

“I don’t know what you think I’m saying. I don’t know what you’re ever thinking about now anymore, Eddie.” Richie chuckles darkly, rubbing his nose miserably.

“Richie, just because I don’t want to meet you outside doesn’t mean that I don’t love you.”

“Then what the fuck does it mean then?! Tell me, Eds! Fucking explain this shit to me! I can’t read your mind, damn it! I don’t know what the hell you want. So fucking tell me what you want, because we are clearly not on the same page!”

“It means that I haven’t thought about meeting you in real life, okay! Is that what you want to hear from me? I haven’t! I don’t feel the need to, Richie. It’s not something pressing for me, because I can’t take it, Richie. I can’t.”

It sinks in slowly, the realisation that Eddie’s never meant for them to have anything outside of dreamspace. And it sinks in deeply, taking his heart down into the part of his soul that he never knew existed until now.

With his throat closing up, Richie mumbles, “You never—” he rubs his dripping nose against his arm, “I’ve always wanted something more for us, Eddie. Outside.”

Eddie’s face crumbles. “Richie..”

“I guess, I mean. Not guess, now I know. I know that I was alone in that.”

“Richie,” Eddie says in a tight voice, sniffling, “You said that you’d take the blue pill too, Richie.”

“Yeah, because you were going to be here, Eddie. I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to have a life with you!”

“And we did, Richie! Look where we are now! If this isn’t having a life together, then tell me what it is.”

“Not like this, Eddie.” Richie whispers, shaking his head with his eyes screwed shut. “Not like this. It’s not— the _same_ , and you know it.”

Eddie doesn’t reply, which is how Richie knows that Eddie knows. It’s not remotely the same thing, and they’ve both been fooling themselves that it was. The only difference was that for Richie, it was always with the assumption that when everything was over, they’d meet one day and be together. Really together.

Clearly, Eddie had other ideas about it.

Walking away, Richie says. “I can’t be here right now.”

He doesn’t look back because if he does and if he sees Eddie moving towards him, he knows for a fact that he’d just turn back and run into Eddie’s arms. He’s always been weak for Eddie, and Richie is nothing if not self-aware about that. On most days, it’s a badge of honour that he wears with pride. Today, it’s something that he wants to hide away. The shame burns his skin.

Richie doesn’t return to their room to cry. He goes back to his own room, a place he hadn’t visited in a long time. There was no need to, since they’d moved into their shared room. There wasn’t ever a time where he felt that he needed to be away from Eddie more than he does now.

_Guess that’s just another thing that’s changed_ , Richie thinks sardonically.

He goes into his room and finds it almost as it was when he left. But the bedsheet is different— it’s not the same colour as the one he remembers. But he knows that he didn’t change it. That means that Eddie’s been in his room when Richie wasn’t around.

Was Eddie lying in his bed while he was gone? Did he try to remember Richie being in the room when he was here? Did he look at Jeff and talk to Jeff?

Did he miss Richie?

But none of that matters. It doesn’t mean anything even if Eddie was in here, lying in his bed with Richie’s pillow to his face. It doesn’t mean anything even if Eddie talked to Jeff about anything to do with Richie. Because Eddie never wanted anything to do with Richie beyond dreamspace.

Richie falls back onto his bed, letting the bedsheet come slightly loose and wrinkle under his weight.

His nose has been rubbed raw as it is, but he rubs it again, then wipes his dirty glasses with the bottom hem of his shirt.

It’s still dirty when he’s done— dried tears smudged across the screen, creating a slightly translucent layer. He’s never as thorough as Eddie when it comes to cleaning the lenses.

Honestly, Richie’s always thought that everything Eddie did, he did better than Richie. Richie’s always thought that Eddie’s his better half. There was never any shred of doubt in his mind that his life was made better because Eddie was there.

And that’s why it hurt so much that Eddie never felt the same way that Richie did. Richie _worshipped_ the ground that Eddie walked on. He’d always imagined that they’d find each other after all this is over and start their life proper.

Where were they going to go from here? Where _can_ they go?

Richie’s eyes prickle with tears all over again, and this time he doesn’t try to stop them. Fake Jeff looks down pityingly at Richie.

Richie must have fallen asleep at some point, even if he doesn’t remember when, because he’s opening his eyes again after a restless sleep when he hears muffled cursing followed by a door creaking open.

Richie blinks sleep away from his eyes, rubbing at the corners as he pushes himself up. Across the room, Eddie is hopping on one foot, hands hugging his other foot to his chest.

“Eddie?”

Eddie’s eyes snap across to meet Richie’s. God, he looks utterly miserable and wrecked. His eyes look every bit as puffy as Richie’s feels, and his usually impeccable hair (messed up only when Richie decides to irritate Eddie) is all over the place, as if Eddie had been tossing and turning, pulling at his hair. His shoulders are slouching and his eyes pour sadness out like a broken tap.

Richie doesn’t know what to say. He didn’t know that Eddie would feel so bad about their argument. Looking at Eddie, it was difficult for Richie to believe that Eddie cared less about their relationship, which was the only thing that he was thinking about up till a second ago.

“Eddie?” Richie asks again, more alert this time.

“Richie,” Eddie breathes out, “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up, but I stubbed my stupid toe against the doorframe like an idiot.”

Richie shifts towards the wall, making space for Eddie to sit on the bed. “No, no. It’s fine, Eds. I really shouldn’t be sleeping so much anyways— I’m not gonna be able to sleep well tonight.”

Eddie shuffles towards the bed, taking a tentative seat on Richie’s side with a cautious smile that looks crudely pasted on his face. “No? You’re not tired from all the crying and emotional turmoil? Cause I am.”

Richie doesn’t laugh, but he offers a brittle smile to acknowledge Eddie’s weak attempt at humour.

“Yeah, I know. That was bad. Okay.” Eddie sighs, rubbing a hand down his face and pulling the skin on his chin. He looks _rugged_. “I came in here to apologise to you, Richie. I’m sorry.”

Richie nods once, not trusting himself to say anything. Eddie peeks at Richie for encouragement then sighs again, exhausted and defeated.

“I’m really sorry for what I said, Richie. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you meant what you said?”

Eddie hesitates, “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Richie asks quietly, “Eddie, please just tell me. I can’t do this anymore.”

Eddie is silent for a long moment, risking a glimpse at Richie as he worries his lip between his teeth. “Can’t do what?” he whispers.

“Can’t keep hanging on your every word, Eddie.” Richie confesses, equally soft. He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he closes his eyes. He’s just so _tired_ of talking about his hurt, he doesn’t want to anymore. Tearing open fresh wounds to pour salt on them all over again. “It’s— the most exhausting shit ever. I don’t know what you mean, I don’t know what you’re thinking about. I have you next to me now, and it feels like you might as well be communicating with me in morse all the way from mars or pluto or something. I can’t decipher it, I can’t understand it. I can’t keep— thinking about all the things that you aren’t telling me, Eddie. I’m tired.”

Guilt crushes Eddie’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Richie laughs mirthlessly, “I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry, Eddie. I want to know _something_. I want to know what you meant back in there.”

Eddie looks away, but his fingers are plucking at the nail of his index finger, as if he was trying to peel the white part away just like that. Richie stares at this quietly. It’s something new that Eddie had picked up in the time that Richie was away. Sure, he’d always had a habit of picking at his nails, but never _peeling_ them. Eddie never had this habit or trait before.

Richie isn’t the only person who has changed.

“I’m not ready to meet you, Richie. That’s all.” Eddie says at last. He’s picking at his nail at a faster pace, more viciously. “I— it’s not true that I don’t want to meet you in real life. I do.”

“Then why’d you say that you didn’t want to?”

“I’m just scared to meet you in real life, Richie. I’m not ready for it. But I do love you. That’s not a lie. I want to meet you one day. I want that so much. It’s all I thought of for seven years, Richie. I hated being here alone more than you know. You can’t honestly have thought that this is all I want for us?”

“I don’t know.” Richie says, looking down. “I hoped not.”

Eddie smiles wryly to himself, “Well. It’s not. I’m just—”

“Not ready, I get it.” Richie says monotonously.

Eddie flinches, but he doesn’t comment on the bitterness underlying Richie’s seemingly toneless words. “Are you mad?”

“Do you want the real answer, or the one that will make you feel better?”

“Richie, I love you. That’s always been real. What we have,” Eddie stops fidgeting with his own hands to press Richie’s hand against his chest. “What we have is real, Richie. It’s more real than anything in the real world.”

“If it’s so real, then what’s making you so scared to meet me out there?”

Eddie’s face falls, “Richie—”

“Eddie, I get it. Okay? You’re not ready— whatever that means.”

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice takes an angry turn, “I told you why I don’t want to meet you in real life right now. You asked, and I explained it. I don’t know what else you want me to say. Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t make it any less real for me. I’m not ready. What else can I say to convince you?”

“How about telling me why you’re not ready? Because— I mean, you’ve been waiting seven years, Eddie. How much longer do you need before you’re finally ready?”

As soon as the words are out, Richie knows that he’s fucked up badly.

He’s never been one to rush Eddie into doing anything that he wasn’t comfortable with. He always wanted to make Eddie feel safe and loved. It’s why he waited for Eddie to come forward and explain the complicated nature of his relationship with his mother, it’s why he’s always tried to encourage Eddie to venture out of his comfort zone, but always, always with the reassurance that Richie would wait if Eddie wasn’t ready.

What was he doing now?

Eddie turns slowly to look at Richie, his face and open expression of betrayal and hurt. There’s the little crease between his brows, the now prominent worry lines across his forehead become visible the way that his eyes begin to shine with pain. He drops Richie’s hand from his chest immediately, as if the touch burned him, and Richie wonders how he’s going to salvage this.

Briefly, Richie wonders if their relationship is strong enough to overcome this.

Eddie stays silent, working his jaw for a few seconds, taking deep breaths while repeatedly clenching and then unclenching his fists.

“Oh, yeah. Totally. Thanks for telling me, Richie, as if I wasn’t already aware of it. Now I’ll be fucking ready to meet you. You’ve cured me of all my apprehension and fears.” Eddie snaps at last, getting off Richie’s bed. Richie scoots up the wall, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Eddie paces wildly around Richie’s room for a few prolonged seconds before turning back to face Richie, face in a deep scowl.

“That’s not fucking fair of you, Richie. Do you know that? You think that you’re the only one with needs in this relationship? You think you’re the only one who wants something out of this?”

“Eddie—”

“No! You’re not, okay? You’re not the one who was waiting here for years and years. You’re not the one who had nothing else but a promise of your partner’s return. Do you think it was fun for me to stay here all alone? Do you ever wonder about how I must have felt in the time that I wondered where you were, or what you were doing?

“And why else do you think I didn’t care that you were gone for such a long time? Because I knew you’d come back to me when you were ready, Richie! Seven whole years I waited for you, and you couldn’t even give me the space I need to be ready to meet you in real life?”

Eddie marches towards Richie, pointing an accusing finger at him. As Eddie gets closer, Richie can see that there are angry tears rolling down from his narrowed eyes, shining with defiance. Eddie looks like he is going to jab his finger into Richie’s chest but Eddie stops in front of the bed and throws out his arm, “Where the fuck are we, Richie? You’ve never been afraid to come back here because it’s all in a dream, but I can’t be afraid to meet you in the real world where real shit actually happens? Grow up, Richie. Not every fucking thing is about you.”

When all the words are out between them, Eddie’s body is shaking in anger, taking heavy, shuddering breaths with tears still spilling from his big brown eyes. His mouth is a tight twisted line, and his cheeks are flushed even under the pale light from Richie’s window. He looks so torn up that Richie feels it bubble inside of him as well, releasing a new wave of tears that overcome him as he crawls towards the edge of the bed to pull Eddie to him.

“Eddie..” Richie cries softly.

Eddie lets himself fall into Richie’s embrace, pliant. It’s only when Eddie’s head rests on top of Richie’s that Richie feels Eddie’s body begin to tremble harshly with the force of his tears. Ugly sobs escape from the both of them like a symphony in disharmony, both of them clawing at each other, trying to get as close to each other as their physical bodies would allow them to.

“Eddie,” Richie says between gasps, “I’m so sorry, Eddie. I’m so sorry.”

“Richie,” Eddie rasps out, “Richie.”

They continue to hold on to each other until there are no more tears between them. Whenever words fail, physical touch is the one thing that always seems to convey everything that they want to say. Tight hugs and kisses usually do the trick for them, and sometimes a little spooning on the bed helps them to reconcile any remaining negativity. But now, even with their bodies as close as they could physically be, it still isn’t enough. There is something else between them that they can’t cross.

Eddie pulls away first, wiping his eyes in quick motions before he holds Richie’s face tenderly, tilting Richie’s face so that they can smile at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Richie says again. Eddie shakes his head, his crooked smile inching up his cheek although it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry too,” Eddie sniffles, looking away with a weary sigh, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You said what you honestly felt, Eds. I don’t think you were entirely wrong in that.”

Eddie barks out a harsh laughter. It doesn’t suit him, Richie thinks.

“Yeah, I was, Richie.” Eddie says.

“We were both emotional. I think we said a lot of things that we didn’t want to, but it was good. We talked it out.”

“It was more yelling than talking.”

Richie shrugs, nonchalant. “It’s the same thing.”

“No, it really isn’t.” Eddie says.

“Eddie, it really doesn’t matter.” Richie says, wrapping his hands over Eddie’s while cocking his head to the side, offering a small smile. “I think that we both meant the things that we said. I’m really sorry that I pushed you like that. I— honestly, I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”

Eddie’s eyes begin to water again, “Me too, Richie. I’m sorry.”

Richie leans up to kiss Eddie’s eyelids, which flutter shut. Richie kisses both of Eddie’s eyelids before kissing the tip of his nose, and finally a peck on his lips. It’s their usual routine for making up after they’ve had squabbles. Yet, when Eddie opens his eyes cautiously this time, it doesn’t feel the same as it always has.

Something else has changed between them. What? An understanding of the temporality of their lives together? A deeper understanding that sometimes love just isn’t enough?

Wistfulness tinges Richie’s smile as he runs a thumb from Eddie’s eyes down the bridge of his nose. Tracing new lines that weren’t there years ago, memorising the little specks in Eddie’s eyes.

They’re not the same people that they once were, when love was a tool they used to conquer the world.

Eddie’s eyes catch on Richie’s lips, flickering up to Richie’s with a look before he leans in and presses their lips together. He draws away before Richie has the chance to return the kiss, earning a small unhappy noise from Richie.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says against Richie’s lips.

“Eddie..”

“I know, I know. I’m killing the mood. But I just— I need you to know that I’m sorry, Richie.”

Richie leans his head back so that he can press his fingers against Eddie’s downturned lips, trying to ease the taut line.

“I know.” Richie whispers, leaning in to kiss Eddie again, more purposefully, more deeply. Eddie makes a noise of surprise but presses back into the kiss quickly, wrapping his arms around Richie’s neck to pull him closer.

Richie thinks that they usually share a few types of kisses: there are the frantic ones where they’re eager to get their hands on each other, there are the lazy ones where they’re happy to lie together and let their kisses remain as kisses, and there are the playful ones which usually promise something more. Now, Richie is beginning to realise that this is a new type of kiss: it isn’t hurried, but it isn’t completely content either. It’s the last dance that lovers have before the party’s over, it’s the last wave from a person on a train to someone on the platform. It shouldn’t be laced with regret and longing, but here they are.

When Eddie moves away, that little private smile still stuck on his lips like it’s going to be a permanent feature, Richie says, “I love you. So freaking much, Eds, I wish you knew.”

Eddie’s eyes curve further, crinkling at the edges, “I know, because I love you the same way.”

Richie knows that there’s still something missing in there, but he’s too tired to care about it now. He doesn’t want to think about all the things that they haven’t resolved yet, because he’s here with Eddie, and that’s all that should matter.

But it still isn’t enough.

Kissing Richie’s lips gently again— not as quick as a peck on the lips, but not something lingering— Eddie wiggles closer to Richie, tucking his head under Richie’s chin. Richie shifts until he’s got a more comfortable position on his tiny single sized bed. He knows that they’ll have to properly talk about things later on, and he knows that it’ll be another uncomfortable and painful conversation. But for now, he just wants to lie here with Eddie in his arms, basking in the love that overwhelms him.

The love that gives him so much happiness, the same one that suffocates him.

He doesn’t realise that he’s fallen asleep until he comes around slowly, hearing something strange in the background as if he had left his phone on. Blinking a few times, Richie brings a hand to his head, the spinning sensation reminding him of a bad hangover. All of this is strange to Richie, of course, because his phone isn’t on and because he hadn’t been drinking.

When he can feel his arms again, he realises that Eddie’s rolled over to the edge of the bed, his back facing Richie. He’s still snoring, which means that Eddie’s still asleep. Richie starts to worm his way over, wanting to spoon Eddie again, but then he hears something strange again. Distorted, a faded sound whistling through the air. No— it’s a voice. It’s raw with crying.

_“Eddie bear..”_

Richie jerks away from Eddie, completely awake by now. Eddie _bear_? What the fuck? That sounds awfully intimate. It sounds awfully intimate, like a pet name a lover keeps for his partner. It sounds like something that Richie might have called Eddie, but it isn’t him calling Eddie and that stirs something in his heart. It’s bitter and sharp and sour.

The weeping voice doesn’t end there, which both causes relief and grief to Richie. Relief because he knows that he isn’t hearing things, and grief because he knows that there is something that Eddie isn’t telling him— another lover? A secret? Richie doesn’t know which is worse.

There’s a soft sob, wet and choked and ugly. It sounds like the person— no, the _woman_ , had been crying for a long time. It sounds like sandpaper grating his ears. He doesn’t want to hear it anymore, he wants it to stop. He wants to wake Eddie up and to crawl into his embrace, he wants to run and hide somewhere by himself. But all he does is sit on the bed, breathing growing more rapid.

_“Eddie bear…”_

No. Richie remembers now, he remembers this voice. This weeping voice.

_“Eddiee..”_

He’s heard it before.

_“You need to wake up.. Please, Eddie bear..”_

It’s the final piece of the puzzle that Richie hadn’t known he had been searching for, and it was handed to him not by Eddie, but by someone else. It slots into the middle perfectly, matching the dark shadows all around it. It doesn’t do much to change the entire picture, but it makes it whole, makes it make _sense_. Because now Richie knows with certainty what he’s never allowed himself before, not because he didn’t know— he knew. He just didn’t want to believe it could be true. But now there’s evidence staring him in the eyes, and Richie cannot let himself shy away from the truth anymore.

Eddie has been sleeping, and he hasn’t woken up since he went to sleep.

He hadn’t woken up since Richie first met him with an angry ‘ _Hey!’_ , he hadn’t woken up when Richie promised to swim in the Kenduskeag with him the next day, he hadn’t woken up when they argued about blue and red pills. Now, in the same bed, Eddie was still sleeping peacefully— both in here, and in the real world.

He hadn’t woken up a single time. This is all one continuous dream for Eddie.

Why hasn’t Eddie woken up?

How many days has it been since Eddie went to sleep?

His stomach is starting to turn itself inside out, the room begins to spiral out of control even when he’s sitting firmly on the bed, and suddenly the distance between him and Eddie begins to widen. He’s inches away from Eddie, but the bed grows, viciously putting miles between them.

Richie is going to be sick.

He brings another hand to his head, willing himself not to panic. He doesn’t want to pass out, but he wishes he could. Dear god, he wants to be unconscious right fucking now.

In the middle of everything, even as the woman’s soft raspy voice fills the air, another stronger one filters through.

_“It’s okay, Richie.”_

It’s another woman’s voice, but one he’d recognise anywhere: Bev. Following her voice, there’s another one, calmer, steadier.

_“Richie, wake up.”_

The room is beginning to spin faster, furniture becoming vague shadows in the dark and Eddie’s silhouette disappearing into the distance. No, no, no, no no no no no. Richie has so many things that he needs answers from Eddie, but it’s not his decision anymore.

The room fades into darkness, and Richie briefly thinks that it’s funny that this should be how waking up feels like— the complete opposite of the white nothingness in dreamspace.

And then.

There’s a soft hand on his face, slowly coaxing him into consciousness.

“Richie.. Everything is okay, everything is going to be alright.”

Are they really?

“Oh, look. He’s awake.”

Richie makes a sound that vaguely acknowledges Stan, trying to pat Bev’s hand reassuringly. It’s not reassuring, if the way that her brows furrow is of any indication.

“What..” Richie begins. His voice sounds worse than it usually does after a very long and deep sleep. He clears his throat, trying to push himself up against the headboard to get a better view of his friends.

Bev is kneeling on the floor next to the bed, while Stan is standing behind her with a hand covering the speakers on his phone. Stan’s usually blank face is troubled with something, lips downturned and eyes watching Richie worriedly.

“Are you alright?” Bev asked, “You were having a nightmare.”

“Um, yeah,” Richie murmurs, putting his head in his heads sullenly, “Just feel kinda sick.”

Bev looks behind her shoulder at Stan, both of them exchange a look before she gets up and steps away, letting Stan move into the space she vacated. Richie frowns in confusion.

“What time is it? Why are the both of you here?”

Stan looks to Bev, who raises her brows as if saying, _Well?_

Stan sighs heavily, kneeling on the floor next to Richie. He looks like the bearer of bad news, which is laughable because no news that Richie will hear now can beat the one that he had just confirmed.

“Richie, Bill just called me.” Stan says. Suddenly, Richie is glad that he’s leaning against the headboard because he can feel the nausea rising again. Whatever Stan had to say, it was not going to be good. And whatever Stan was going to tell Richie, it was going to be about Eddie. Even with his head still spinning, he was clear headed enough to put two and two together.

Something related to Eddie was not going to be good news.

“What..” Richie trails off, waving a hand for Stan to continue. Stan’s look doesn’t falter, although his heads are slightly cold when he presses his phone into Richie’s.

“It’s better if you hear it from him yourself.”

Richie looks up quickly, catching sight of the look of sympathy in Stan’s eyes before it fades away, going back to the blank look he wears so well. It’s not just a casual blankness this time, though. It’s guarded.

Richie swallows thickly, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he says weakly.

“Hello? Is th-this Richie? Richie Tozier?”

The voice sounds deeper than Richie remembered it, but it’s definitely Bill Denbrough on the phone. Richie has to suppress a laugh because of all the ways that he’d imagined meeting Bill again, this was not one of the scenarios he had in mind.

“Yeah.. Hey, Big Bill.” Richie says, a small but fond smile creeping onto his face.

Bill laughs over the phone, but it sounds hollow. “Y-your face and my butt, Tozier.”

It’s something that Bill used to say to Richie when Richie started imitating his stutter. At least his stutter sounds better now than it did when they were still pre-teens, back during the time when Bill’s younger brother, Georgie, nearly got washed away by the great flood in Derry, thanks mostly to Derry’s shitty drainage system. It had given Bill nightmares for months and caused his stutter to worsen then, much to the delight of Bowers and his asshole friends who had more reason to pick on Bill.

But the thing that strikes Richie isn’t his stutter, but the phrase _your face and my butt_. It’s what Eddie used to say sometimes as well. And now it begins making more and more sense, cogs in the machine beginning to move after years of disuse, rusted and stiff but all it takes is one cog to set the whole chain in motion. It shouldn’t be surprising— he had heard about Eddie and Bill’s friendship from Stan two days ago, but hearing it straight from the horse’s mouth itself—

Richie wants to throw up.

When Bill’s laughter dies, the soft shuffling sounds on Bill’s end begin to sound like a bad omen to Richie.

“Richie, you were asking a-about Eddie?”

“Yeah, I am, actually.”

There’s a loud silence between them before Bill speaks again. “Are you sitting down?”

“Yeah, I am.” Richie tries to say lightly, “What’s the matter, Bill? You’re kinda freaking me out over here.”

Bill doesn’t laugh or play along. Instead, he says, “It’s b-better for my friend to explain it to you.”

_How many times am I going to hear this sentence tonight? Just fucking tell it to me already,_ Richie thinks.

There’s some more shuffling over the phone before a deep voice coughs into the phone, “Hello?”

“Hello? Who is this?”

“My name is Mike Hanlon. I heard that you were asking about Eddie a few days ago?”

So this is _the_ Mike Hanlon that Eddie kept talking about. The Mike Hanlon that saved Eddie from Bowers, the Mike Hanlon who befriended Eddie in community college when no one else wanted to, the Mike Hanlon who became Eddie’s only new friend in years. Eddie’s best friend. That Mike Hanlon.

For a long time, Richie thought that maybe Mike Hanlon and Eddie had something special between them, the way that Richie and Eddie do now. But then when Eddie confessed and they got together, he just.. forgot about Mike.

Until now.

Burying the insidious feeling budding in him, Richie replies, jiggling his leg. “Yeah. What’s happening?”

Mike takes a second to inhale, long and slow. The wait is killing Richie.

“Richie, right? Can I call you Richie?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, Richie. I’ll try to make this easy for you. Eddie had been in an accident four days ago. Basically, he got hit by a truck driver while riding his bicycle down the junction near the town hall. He hasn’t woken up since the accident happened.”

The words pass through his ears and filter out almost as if they hadn’t been spoken. Richie feels like he’s floating away from his body, although his body feels heavier and heavier with every passing second. There are more sounds from the phone but Richie cannot hear it, and neither can he hear the words that Bev and Stan are saying as they move towards him. They are blurs in the corner of his vision, and the only thing that Richie can focus on are the words _hit by a truck driver_.

Hit by a truck driver.

Eddie was hit by a truck driver.

Richie is going to vomit.

He is surprised by how level his voice sounds when he says, “Mikey? Buddy?”

“Uhhuh?”

“Can you hold on for a sec?”

“Uh,” Mike sounds confused, “Sure, why?”

“Cause I gotta fucking vomit.”

Stan jerks into action, grabbing the small trash can near his bed and shoving it under Richie’s chin at the same time that Richie lets go of the phone and throws up into the trash can. Part of him had hoped that the sick feeling festering in him was because of the need to vomit. He hoped to feel better afterward.

He doesn’t.

_“In hindsight, I wished that I did things a lot differently.”_

_Zzz._

_“In hindsight, I made a lot of mistakes, Richie.”_

At Richie’s request, Bev makes him a cup of hot chocolate. It doesn’t taste the same as the one Eddie makes for him, it’s too thin and there isn’t enough marshmallows inside. Eddie is more health conscious then Bev is but Eddie still makes his hot chocolate thicker, torches the pile of marshmallows he throws on the top. Sure, Eddie always takes the opportunity to tell Richie that his sugar intake is going to give him diabetes one day, but he makes it the same way the next time anyway.

Thinking about how Eddie spoils him makes Richie want to cry all over again. But he doesn’t because salty hot chocolate doesn’t taste good.

He’s sitting on his bed sandwiched between Stan and Bev. Bev has an arm around Richie’s hunched shoulders, while Stan leans in enough that their shoulders are touching.

His mind returns to Mike’s words, steady but heavy with sadness and regret.

_“He called me that night, crying and distraught.” Mike says, pausing for a long moment, as if wondering if Richie wanted him to continue. Richie made a small noise of acknowledgement over the phone, gesturing for Mike to continue even if Mike couldn’t see it. Mike cleared his throat decisively, hesitating on his next words._

_“He told me that he had confronted his mother over dinner. Obviously, I was shocked since Eddie has never been a confrontational person, much less with his mother. He said that he found out from Mr. Keene that all his medicines were placebos, and his mother had been lying to him for years to get him to stay close to her. He said he couldn’t stand to be in his house anymore. I knew that Bill was out at a creative writing class party that night, so I offered to let him stay at my place until he calmed down.”_

_Richie nods dumbly, feeling too numb to say anything. He runs a hand across his forehead, resting his elbow on his knee._

_“I told him to stay in his house while I took my father’s car to pick him up. As I was driving down the junction at town hall, turning the corner to his street, I saw a truck stop abruptly with a man climbing out of the driver’s seat.” Mike stopped, taking a quiet breath. Richie steeled himself, knowing what was about to come. He closed his eyes and counted to ten in his head._

_He only got to four before Mike continued._

_“He knocked into Eddie. I don’t know how true it is, but he claimed that Eddie was riding his bicycle across the road even though it had been a red man.” Mike’s voice shakes ever so slightly, but Richie is more surprised by how steady it has been since they started talking. “We took him to the hospital and he’s been sleeping ever since.” Mike takes another moment to collect his thoughts, “His mother is here too. She blames me and Bill and chases us out whenever she’s around— which is a lot. The good news is that he’s relatively okay. He’s got a broken arm— that’s the most serious injury so far. The doctors call it a miracle, but they can’t confirm if there are other injuries at the moment.”_

_“He broke his arm?” Richie repeats, snapping back into himself. Hearing about the accident felt so separate, but hearing that Eddie had actually gotten hurt in it.. It’s so real that Richie wants to vomit again._

_Eddie could have_ died _._

_“Yeah, he did. Docs have been saying it’s lucky that that was all he broke, but I’m not sure about it considering that they don’t know how his cognitive functions may have been impacted. Um, I haven’t got to see him much, but whenever I do it’s during the meal and toilet breaks that his mother has.” Mike pauses. There’s a soft shuffling sound over the phone, a door closing quietly in the background. “I can see that he isn’t sleeping well. Richie, I won’t lie to you, Eddie doesn’t look like he’s having a good dream on most days. I’m not allowed to stay past visiting hours, but he sleeps fitfully during the day. I used to wonder what he dreamt about, but I decided that I didn’t want to know.”_

_Richie nods on his end, taking in a long, shuddering breath._

_“Maybe it’s for the best that I don’t.” Mike adds as an afterthought._

_Distantly, Richie thinks that he doesn’t want to know either._

_“He’s going to be alright.” Mike says gently._

_Richie nods, and realising that Mike can’t see him nodding, he says, “Uh, yeah. I— yeah.”_

_“Are you going to be alright?”_

_Richie hesitates, “Yeah. I think so.”_

_There’s an awkward silence over the call, as if Mike’s debating on whether to say something else or not. Eventually, there’s some shuffling sounds and a soft thanks uttered before Bill’s voice comes over the receiver._

_“Hey, Richie. Are you okay?”_

_Richie sniffles. No, he thinks. “Yeah.” he says instead._

_There’s another long second of pause before Bill speaks again. “Right.” he says, unconvinced. Richie purses his lips. “Anyway, I g-guess I’ll keep you updated on Eddie’s progress. Um, do you want to d-drop me a text so I can save your number? Or should I get y-y-your number down now?”_

_“Uh, I’ll leave you a text later. In the morning, probably.”_

_Bill laughs humourlessly, “Alright. It’s k-k-kinda late. Wouldn’t wanna be keeping y-you up.”_

_“You’re not. I couldn’t sleep anyway. Had a— nightmare.”_

_This time, the silence lasts long enough for it to grow awkward and uncomfortable even with miles and miles of distance between them. Richie scratches an itch on his arm._

_“Hey, uh, Richie?”_

_“Yeah Big Bill?”_

_“Um,” there’s another one of those dreadful pauses, “C-Can I ask you a question? I mean, you don’t have to a-a-answer me. I was just.. Wondering.”_

_No, I don’t want to hear your question, Richie thinks. “Sure.”_

_“Um. I was just wondering.. How you k-knew Eddie.”_

_Richie can’t say he’s surprised. Bill has always been sharp, too observant for his own good, really._

_When Richie doesn’t answer, Bill speaks up again, “H-Hey, man. It’s okay. I get it. Just.. it’s going to be o-okay. He’s going to be okay. You k-k-know that, right?”_

_Richie nods again, “Yeah. I think so.”_

_“Alright. It was— can’t say t-that it was nice to catch up with y-y-you again under these circumstances. But we should definitely catch up one d-day.”_

_“Yeah, we should.” Richie chuckles. “Thanks again, Bill.” then, a second later, Richie says quickly, “Hey, uh, Bill?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Can you—” Richie says tightly, releasing a strangled breath as he clenches his fist, “Can you please take care of Eddie for me?”_

_Bill is silent for a long moment. “Of course I will. Get a g-g-good rest, Rich.” he says calmly, “I’ll k-keep you updated.”_

_Bill waits until Richie ends the call, which takes a minute longer than it should._

Richie sniffles miserably, staring down into the cup of swirling brown bubbles as if it held all the answers to the world.

Bev rubs her hand down Richie’s shoulders comfortingly, resting her head against him. Stan wiggles closer to Richie, so that their thighs are pressed up together as well. Richie thinks that this might be the closest to getting a group hug that he’ll ever get from Stan.

“How’re you feeling now, babe?” Bev whispers. Stan turns his head to watch Richie sip on his hot chocolate. His face is as placid as ever, but there’s a spark of interest in his eyes— worry.

“Like shit.”

Bev winces. Clearly, she had been hoping for a more optimistic answer. She was not going to get it from Richie.

“Well.. how’s Eddie?”

How’s Eddie? The question is so open yet so specific that Richie barks a laugh. Stan frowns in distaste, side glancing at Richie.

“How’s Eddie?” Richie repeats dryly, “I mean, everyone’s telling me that he’ll be fine. He’s got a broken arm, and that was the most serious physical injury he sustained. The doctors said that they can’t verify if he has any cognitive impairments because, you know, Eddie is still sleeping and won’t wake up. Because, you know, he’s in dreamspace, baking fucking cakes and splashing around in the Kenduskeag with me like nothing is fucking wrong in real life.”

“Richie..”

“He could have died, Bev.” Richie raises his voice, “Do you get it? I mean, he got hit by a fucking _truck_ for god’s sake. And we’re fucking playing boyfriends in dreamspace, like he isn’t lying in a coma in goddamn Derry!”

Richie pushes himself off the bed, putting his mug on his desk so that he can clench his fists against the table, taking deep breaths as he chews punishingly on the insides of his cheek.

_“Richie, a lot of bad shit can happen to you and you can still be here.”_

“And I’m just thinking: why the _fuck_ didn’t I know?” Richie slams a fist against his desk, gritting his teeth, “I mean— how the _fuck_ did I manage to convince myself that we were some special exception to the goddamn rule? Like as if we were the only ones who could have more than one soulmate dream, like life decided to bless us with what fucking ever.”

“You’re not stupid, Richie. You couldn’t have known.”

_“It’s not your fault, Eds. No one blames you for believing your mother. It sucks that it happened to you, though. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you earlier.”_

“Uh, yeah. I am stupid, Bev. That’s the whole fucking— problem. That is literally where the problem started: my stupidity.”

Behind him, Stan and Bev exchange another worried look.

“And I keep wondering: is it my fault for not pushing the topic? Or is it his, for not telling me in the first place?”

“Richie..” Stan says warningly. He knows where this thought will go, and it is not a pretty place.

_“Well.. You were. Kind of. I mean, the day that we first met, when you intruded into my room—”_

“No, Stan. Just— fuck it. Okay? You were _there_ when you told me that it was fishy that Eddie waited years for me. And what the hell did I do? Nothing! I just— wanted to believe that everything was okay. I convinced myself that it wasn’t a problem like a fucking idiot, okay?”

Richie wipes the hem of his sleeve over his wet eyes hastily, sniffling angrily, “You weren’t there, when Eddie told me that he’d always known I’d go back to dreamspace. You _weren’t there_ , you didn’t see the look in his eyes, you didn’t—” Richie bites onto his lower lip, willing his voice not to break. “You didn’t _see_ it, okay? He knew. He fucking— he knew all along, and he didn’t _tell me_. While he’s lying in a coma in real fucking life, we were just— playing house in dreamspace. Just fucking— pretending that we have all the time in the world.

“And you know what hurts even more than knowing what a fool I’ve been all along? It’s knowing that even after all the years that we’ve spent together, all the time and memories and shit, Eddie still doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t trust me to tell me the important things, just— _brushes_ me off whenever we stray to this topic.”

_“I mean.. It’s not true— that I thought that you weren’t.. coming back to me.”_

Richie throws his head back, closing his eyes to hold back the hot tears threatening to spill. He sucks in a long breath before opening his eyes, looking up at Jeff.

_“But.. I always.. kinda knew deep down that you would.”_

“And I keep thinking: why doesn’t Eddie trust me?” he says weakly. His voice wavers as his thoughts go back to all the whispered declarations of love between them, to all the touches they shared, the kisses they’ve had.

“What have I done that makes him wary of telling me anything? I mean— all I’ve done is try to love him. I’ve _always_ told him the truth, even if it was going to be unpleasant. Even if I knew I was going to be the asshole for saying what I really felt. But I’ve always.. I’ve only ever been honest with Eddie, you know? And it hurts so fucking much that I’ve had to find this out from literally _everyone but him_! It hurts that we would still be playing make believe if none of this had happened, and I would still be happily down there with him!”

“Richie..” Bev says, pleading with him not to continue with her eyes. She gets up slowly, wrapping her arms over Richie’s taut back with her own tears falling from her eyes. Stan watches them from the bed, shoulders slouched and hands limp in his lap.

Bev hugs Richie for several quiet minutes, rocking their bodies from side to side while Richie’s attempt to suppress the hot, angry tears from rolling down his face fails. Eventually, he gives up, ripping off his glasses frustratedly to cry properly.

“I— I’ve always been honest with him. Fuck, I—” Richie wipes his wet eyes against his sleeve, “I trusted him so much, okay? I love him so fucking much I feel like I could just die like this and I’d be _happy_. And even after everything he _still_ couldn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, _that he had known all along_. Do you know how fucked up that is? Do you know how that makes me feel? It makes me feel like a fool, it makes me feel like—”

“Richie, honey..” Bev says, hugging him tighter. He shakes his head.

_“Come back here, I mean.”_

“I don’t understand, Bev. I just— I don’t know why. Did I do something wrong? Was it me?”

Bev doesn’t answer for a long time. When she does, her voice is deadly still, devoid of emotions. “I didn’t tell Ben.”

Richie looks over his shoulder, face creasing in confusion. He catches Stan’s look of surprise before he turns around in Bev’s embrace, trying to get a better look at her face, but she continues hiding her face from him, burying herself in his large shirt.

“Bev—”

“I didn’t tell Ben about..” her voice trails off coldly, “I couldn’t tell him about my father until recently.” she takes a long moment to collect herself, still hiding her face in Richie’s chest. “It’s not that I didn’t trust Ben, but.. it’s coming from a place of hurt, from somewhere I tried to bury when we took that plane away from Maine. And digging back to that place was.. it was really awful, Richie. It takes a lot.”

Richie’s shoulders slump as he wraps his arms around her shoulders. It suddenly occurs to Richie how much smaller Bev is, especially when she’s curling into herself, trying to take up as little space as possible. The only thought that goes through his head is how unlike Bev this is: the girl he’s seen who is always so fiercely independent, so aware of her own worth that she wasn’t willing to settle for anything less.

The only times that Richie saw her shake in anything that wasn’t anger were the times that he saw hand-like bruises around her wrists, purple splotches dotting her arms. The same moments that her dead eyes wandered over to meet his under their tree in the barrens, with a dainty hand wrapped around a crumpled cigarette.

“It wasn’t him, Richie.” Bev says, and with how quiet it is, how muffled it is, Richie almost misses it. “It was me. It’s a lot of things, but they’re all me— just different parts of me that I tried to scatter.” her voice falls as she says, “So, no, Richie. Maybe it’s you. But it’s probably not entirely you.”

Stan stands up quietly, walking over to put his arms around Richie and Bev. His eyes are not wet like the both of theirs, but the guarded look in his eyes is gone. He looks sad for Richie.

They take a long moment to busk in the comfort of their hug, allowing their breathing to calm down and for their tears to dry.

“Richie,” Stan says, breaking the moment, “None of us can answer your questions. I said this before and I think it still applies: you should be talking about this with Eddie.”

Richie nods feebly, drying his eyes with the damp sleeve of his shirt.

“But, you should know that it must have been difficult for him to talk about this with you as well. I’m not trying to give excuses for Eddie— I don’t even know the guy— but it’s still his trauma to share. Even if you’re angry— which you have every right to be— you should also keep in mind that this is something he should be able to share when he’s ready. Maybe he could have told you a brief version of it, but I hope that you can understand it from his point of view as well.

“I don’t know Eddie, I think he fucked up, but I also think that he has his own reasons. You need to talk to him properly about this.”

Bev looks away, pursing her lips as her gaze flickers to Richie.

Richie looks up hesitantly, eyes red and puffy. “I know, Stan. I know.”

Bev’s expression breaks open again, leaning in to wrap her arms around Richie’s neck. “Richie, you’re going to be okay.”

Richie lets himself lean into her soft touch, burying his face in her soft rosemary-smelling hair and taking a whiff of it, closing his eyes. He knows what Stan said is true, and he knows that Bev agrees with Stan. Hell, _Richie_ himself agrees with Stan. He knows that Eddie must have had his own reasons for wanting to keep this to himself, but it doesn’t soothe the hurt in his chest. It doesn’t make it okay for Eddie to choose to cherry pick whatever he wants to share when Richie has been completely honest about himself.

But this is a much needed conversation to have with Eddie. For such a long time, Richie’s been wondering why their arguments never made much sense to him. He’s always found himself sliding off the seat at the table and never finding the right words to say to Eddie. It turns out that they had been talking in different languages, he just never knew.

It all makes so much fucking sense now. But there’s still one part of the puzzle missing: why Eddie never told Richie about it.

“Yeah, I know.” Richie repeats, more to himself than to his friends. Bev squeezes his shoulders encouragingly, leaning back to kiss him on the cheek.

“You’re a strong man, Richie.” Bev whispers, patting his neck, “If there’s anyone who can get through this, it’s you.”

Richie snorts wetly, “I don’t know about that.”

Stan offers a half-smile, stepping forward to put a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Yeah, Richie. If there’s anyone who is annoyingly hard-headed about things, it’s you. That’s how I know that things are going to be okay.”

“You suck so much, Uris. I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel better.”

Stan shrugs, “Take it how you will.”

“Take it how you will, he says.”

“Okay, knock it off you two. It’s coming to five and I think that Richie’s got some very important things he needs to settle. And I’ve got very precious beauty sleep to catch up on.”

“ _You_ clearly don’t need it.” Stan says to Bev, although he’s staring pointedly at Richie. Richie flips him the middle finger with a low chuckle.

“Fuck off, Stan. Way to kick a guy who’s already down.”

Bev gives Richie’s cheeks a light slap, “Are you going to be okay?”

Richie looks to Stan who quirks his eyebrows with a crooked smile, and to Bev, who is gauging Richie’s expression carefully.

“Yeah, guys. I’ll be okay.” he says earnestly, offering a small but sincere smile.

Bev presses another kiss to his cheek before stepping away, while Stan pats Richie’s arm again quietly before trailing after Bev out of the room. Just before he closes the door, Stan looks into the small gap, meeting Richie’s gaze in a brief moment. Richie nods once, pressing a smile onto his lips. Stan’s gaze lingers a bit before he closes the door behind him gently, making not more than a soft _thak_ sound.

It’s only when Bev and Stan are no longer in the room that Richie lets himself crumble on his bed, covering his face in his hands. He is so _tired_ , he can feel it seeping into his bones. He can feel the weight of his eyelids, the thumping in his head that’s getting louder and louder and impossible to ignore. All he wants to do is to go into a sleep so deep that he doesn’t dream at all. Just blacks out and becomes dead to the world for a few blissful hours. But of course, that isn’t going to happen because if he goes back to sleep, chances are that he’ll go back into dreamspace and see Eddie again.

He needs to sort this shit out with Eddie, but god does he want to _not_ do it. If there was ever a time to question how much their relationship could weather, it was now.

Wiping his hands down his face (which Eddie would never approve of, because you really shouldn’t touch your face until you’ve washed your hands), Richie stares blankly at Jeff. Jeff shrugs helplessly, _I can’t help you, man. Sorry._

Richie scoffs, “Of course you can’t. You’re fucking mold on my ceiling.”

It’s not a nice thing to say to Jeff, who’s been there for him at every major and minor crisis since he’s moved to New York, but what the fuck. Richie’s feeling petty right now, and he wants to be petty. He’s allowed to be petty.

If Jeff could glare at Richie, he’d be glaring _hard_.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Fuck. Shit. I’m fucking up all over the place. I’m sorry.”

Jeff sighs, half placated by the apology but half still pissed at Richie’s outburst anyway. Richie shrugs it off. He’s got a lot going on right now and doesn’t need this from his friend.

Richie closes his eyes, trying to calm himself. He needs to be calm if he’s going to have this talk. He doesn’t want to blow up at Eddie and ruin everything.

He wants to fix things. Really fix things this time.

So he lets his thoughts drift away, thinking about what he needs to say, thinking about what Eddie may say, thinking about—

The softness of the bed under his body, the way that the darkness of the room highlights certain parts of the room, rather than shadowing it completely. As his eyes take time to adjust, Richie realises a few things.

Firstly, it’s probably spring by now. The blanket isn’t as thick as it used to be, and the thermostat isn’t working as hard as it was when he was last here. Probably a few weeks have passed. Richie isn’t sure how many, but it couldn’t be more than 2 months.

The next thing that he realises is the weight next to him, warmth radiating from the pile under the blankets. Eddie.

Richie reaches a hand out to Eddie instinctively before he remembers what he found out, before he remembers the mixed bag of emotions he carried back with him.

Eddie had been in an accident. Eddie’s in a _coma_. Eddie knew all along, and he hid it from Richie.

With his hand still hovering above Eddie’s head, he clenches his hand into a loose fist and brings it back to his chest.

He needs to talk to Eddie.

He isn’t sure if now is a good time. He doesn’t know if he can do this calmly.

He could always put it off to tomorrow, get some sleep here and hopefully wake up feeling better and clearer about everything. But there’s something in his gut that tells him that he needs to do this _now_ , that he’s never going to do it if he lets this moment slip away.

If Richie ever needed a confirmation, Eddie stirring awake is one.

Eddie turns over, curling into himself while blinking blearily. He’s almost settling back into the cooler side of the pillow when his eyes open wider, more alert. When he looks up and sees Richie’s silhouette on the bed, he springs upright, dragging himself across the bed with hazy eyes.

“Richie? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Eds.” Richie says softly, “It’s me.”

Eddie's stoic face melts into something warm as he falls into Richie’s arms, bringing his arms to wrap around Richie’s waist. Richie allows himself to nuzzle Eddie’s neck gently, memorising the feel of Eddie’s hands around him, of Eddie’s light stubble grazing his own cheek.

“Welcome home, Richie.” Eddie murmurs into his ears, lips ghosting the shell of Richie’s ear. Richie shivers at the warmth of Eddie’s breath against his skin. When they pull away, Eddie presses his thumb across Richie’s lips, running across it in a loving motion.

“What time is it?”

“Don’t know. Late, probably.” Eddie chuckles, pulling Richie’s hand into his lap so that he can grasp onto it. “Are you hungry? Do you want to eat anything? Maybe I can make you a cup of hot chocolate if you’d like.”

It’s when Eddie says this that Richie starts to cry again, eyes filling quickly with a new wave of tears as his heart begins tearing itself into smaller pieces. He’s known it for a long time but sitting here, holding Eddie’s hand with Eddie offering to make him something to eat this late at night..

Eddie has always lectured him about the consequences of late night snacking, Eddie’s always been one to sleep early because it’s better for his long term health that way. Which is why Eddie’s offer strikes Richie again and again because even if Eddie has his own opinions on what Richie _should_ do, he always wants to make Richie happy— even if it means adding more cocoa to his hot chocolate, even if it means dumping a lot of marshmallows and torching them, even if it means getting up from his sleep to make Richie something warm in the middle of the night.

Eddie’s always loved him in his own way, even if he doesn’t always say aloud it as often as Richie does. He says it in the small concessions he makes, in the way that he gives in to Richie’s preferences.

So how could Eddie lie to him about something this big?

When Richie begins hiccuping, tears falling from his eyes, Eddie wakes fully. His hands fly to Richie’s face, gently framing his face while wiping away the tear tracks with his thumbs.

“Richie? What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

How can Eddie, who loves Richie, lie to him like that? He can’t understand it. He doesn’t know if he can.

Eddie could have _died_.

He begins sobbing harder, holding onto Eddie’s wrists like his life depends on it.

“Eddie..”

“Richie.. What’s happening?” Eddie asks frantically. His eyebrows are drawn together, mouth downturned in worry. “Why are you crying? Did something happen?”

“Eddie,” Richie says, pulling Eddie’s hands away from his face. He can’t look at Eddie for this. “I know, Eds.”

Surprise flashes across Eddie’s face, “You know? What do you know? What are you talking about? Did you knock your head or something?”

“Eddie.. I know. Everything.” Richie says, still unable to meet Eddie’s eyes. “About why I’ve been coming back here everytime I sleep, even if soulmate dreams only occur once in a lifetime.” he opens his eyes weakly, watching as a tear falls onto the bed sheet between them, “About your accident.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, so Richie glances up. There is poorly concealed shock all over Eddie’s expression, slowly morphing into dread and fear. He’s starting to breathe faster.

“I…” Eddie says, shaking away Richie’s hands around his wrist, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“At first, I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter that you never woke up while I did. I tried to convince myself that it was something inconsequential. But.. I don’t understand, Eddie. Why’d you hide it from me?”

“I wasn’t hiding anything, Richie.” Eddie snaps. The fear and anxiety disappears from his eyes in an instant, although the snippy way that Eddie replies tells Richie that it’s still very much present. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“Eddie.. I’m not.. I’ll be real honest here. I wanted to be angry at you. I wanted to— god, I was so fucking hurt. Okay? I felt _betrayed_ , when I realised what was really happening here. When I had to find it out from everyone but you. And— I really wanted to be mad at you, Eds. Honest to god. But, I can’t. I—” Richie looks away, at the mountain of creases in the blanket between their crossed legs on the bed. “I’m hurt and I’m disappointed, but I’m not angry. Not anymore. Now, all I want to know is why you lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

“Lying by omission is still lying.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“Yeah, it is a real thing, Eddie!” Richie snarls, “That’s why it’s called lying by omission and not ‘ _by omission’_.”

Eddie’s glower falters. For a second, he looks like he’s on the brink of tears as well.

“Shit.” Richie mutters, sandwiching Eddie’s hands in his own, rubbing circles into his palm, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to raise my voice. I’m sorry, Eds.”

“What do you want, Richie?” Eddie asks flatly, coldly. He isn’t crying yet, which is a good thing because the last thing that Richie wants is to make Eddie cry. He never wants to hurt Eddie.

“Eddie, I just want to know why you didn’t want to tell me about it.” Richie explains gently, “I want to know why you don’t want to wake up— or if you can’t.”

When Eddie still looks reluctant to talk, Richie sighs.

“Eddie, I love you. I’m so fucking in love with you, I wish I could show you just how much I love you. If you asked me to wait, I’d wait forever just to spend a single hour with you. And— I’ve always.. I’ve always been honest with you, Eds. I didn’t want anything between us. And even if it pissed you off, like telling you that your new recipes need work, or that your knitting sucks, but I’ve never lied to you. Ever. So.. I mean, I just don’t understand why you’d hide things from me like this.”

Richie glances at Eddie, who averts his gaze in shame. Richie looks down, rubbing a hand down his face exhaustedly.

“You asked me what I want, so I’ll tell you: I want to be with you, Eddie. I want to wake up every single day for the rest of my life to see your face, disgusting and all, but in my bed. In our bed. And I want to marry you and call you my husband, I want to adopt a dog or a cat or whatever. I want to introduce you to my friends and family and brag about my amazing soulmate. I want to brag about you and talk about you to anyone who’s willing to listen to me. I want all of what we already have, and more.

“I want to love you in the real world, Eds. I want to grow old with you in the real world. And I can’t have that if you don’t— or won’t— wake up. So I just want to know why you won’t let me in, Eddie. I want so much for us, but I can’t do this without you.”

Eddie refuses to meet Richie’s stare, although he doesn’t wrestle his hand from Richie’s grip. There’s a long moment of quiet between them, but it’s not the angry kind of quiet where they’re both stewing in their negativity. It’s one punctured by patience and regret that things had to come out the way that they did.

“I can— wake up, I mean.” Eddie admits in a small voice. Richie looks up, unsure.

“You can?”

Eddie nods, looking pained. “I think so, yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Richie,” Eddie hesitates on his words, furrowing his brows with a frustrated frown perched on his lips, “Richie, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

Eddie closes his eyes, shaking his head. “Because,” he says, pained, “Because.. you think I’m brave, Richie.”

Richie frowns in confusion, “What?”

“Because you’ve called me brave so many times, and— you think I’m courageous. I’m not, Richie. I’m really not. I—” Eddie pinches his nose bridge, breathing in slowly, “I’m so _scared_ , Richie. I— whenever I close my eyes, I still— I see her. I see my mom. And I..”

Eddie exhales shakily, still shutting his eyes tightly. Richie’s shoulders sag in slow understanding.

“At first, it was none of your business. I mean, it’s an accident that happened to _me_. I should be able to tell it to you when I’m ready to tell it to you. It wasn’t any of your business. It wasn’t life-threatening, it wasn’t something that concerned you either.”

Richie looks away, adjusting his glasses. He doesn’t want to admit that Eddie has a point, but at the same time the words still sting.

If Eddie notices Richie’s discomfort, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Then, after we got together, I wanted to tell you. I had— there were several moments when I wanted to let you know about it, Richie. You have to believe me.”

“I do.” Richie says quickly.

“It felt so awful that.. I mean, when we were together and when I’d dream of having this life with you too. And it sucked so much that I couldn’t tell you because—” Eddie stops abruptly, catching his breath. He’s trembling like a brittle leaf in the wind. Richie wraps his arms around Eddie, pulling him towards his chest. Eddie stiffens up at the contact at first before he relaxes into the touch, gripping Richie’s shirt in fistfulls.

“I couldn’t tell you because I was scared to wake up.” Eddie confesses, sounding ashamed.

“Why?” Richie asks, so softly that it’s barely above a breath. Eddie’s eyes snap up fiercely, lips pressed together in a deep frown.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Rich,” he says angrily, “But I’m happy here. I’m really fucking happy being in here with you. If I wake up, I’ll have to face my mom. I have to live with her again, I have to—”

“Hey, baby,” Richie murmurs, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe with me.”

Eddie nods against Richie’s shoulder, “I don’t want to wake up, Richie. I’m scared. I want to meet you in real life, too. But I can’t— I don’t think I’m brave enough to face my mom.”

“Eddie..”

“Richie, I’m really fucking scared to face her again, okay? And— I knew that if I told you, maybe you wouldn’t get it. It’s been years in here, but it’s only been a few days in the real world, if I count the number of times you’ve disappeared for years on end. Out there, I’ve only just—” Eddie pauses to take a weak breath, “I only just found out about the fake fucking pills and then got hit by a truck. It’s— I don’t know if I’m brave enough to wake up and to stand up to her again, Richie. I really don’t. And I fucking hate this. I hate that I’m nearly 40 here and thinking about her strikes so much fear in me again. I feel so pathetic, Richie. I feel so weak and—”

“Eds, I’m going to cut you off there. I don’t want to hear anyone shit talking about my boyfriend. Not even my boyfriend is going to get away with it, alright?”

Eddie laughs shakily, “Alright.”

“Good.” Richie says, rubbing the corner of Eddie’s lips where a stray tear has caught on. “And Eddie, you’re literally the bravest person I’ve ever known. You’re not brave because you don’t fear anything. That’s not how it works. You’re brave because you fear something, and you do it anyway. That’s what bravery is, that’s what courage is. Eddie.. You’re so fucking brave and you don’t even know it. You literally worked through years of trauma and you’ve done everything that your mom told you you couldn’t. And you did all this, with that fear still there. I’m so fucking proud of you, Eds. You have no freaking idea.”

“That’s not true..” Eddie mumbles under his breath, “It doesn’t matter, Richie. I’ve done all these things in the safety of dreamspace. When it’s in the real world, I.. I don’t know if I can do them all again.”

“Baby,” Richie rests his forehead against Eddie’s. Eddie looks up sharply, blinking at their closeness. “You are braver than you think, Eds. You are the bravest person I know. You’re just as brave as Bev leaving her abusive father, as Stan defying his father’s expectations at his own Bar Mitzvah. But, you know. They’re fucking badass, but they’re not half as badass as you.” Richie freezes, “Don’t tell them that I said that though. Especially not Bev, she’ll kick my balls.”

Eddie snorts, “And you’ll deserve it, you idiot.”

“Maybe.” Richie shrugs indifferently, “But I mean it, Eddie. I mean, I would prefer for this to be between us, but I don’t care if they know. It’s true. You’re so fucking badass. It doesn’t matter if this is only dreamspace, Eds. I know that that courage that you possess? It doesn’t belong only in here, in dreamspace. It belongs here.” Richie taps against Eddie’s chest, at the place where his heart beats. “It belongs with you. You are the bravest person I’ve ever known, Eddie. You’re so scared of doing it, but you do it anyway. That’s.. that’s what being brave is all about, Eddie.”

Eddie’s lips are pressed into a thin line, but it’s obvious to Richie that he’s really trying to suppress his smile. Richie leans in to press their lips together softly.

“You’re so brave, Eds. And you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll always be here for you. I don’t care how long I have to wait for you, I don’t care how much shit we’ll have to go through together. I want to do this with you. Not that you need my help, but I’m always gonna be here, Eddie.”

“Even if you have to wait centuries for me?”

“Well, hopefully it’ll be sometime when I’m still alive.” Eddie elbows Richie, who pretends to wince, “But, sure, if we have an afterlife, I’ll wait centuries for you.”

Eddie studies Richie’s face for a long second, watching every movement on his face, in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Richie. I know I hurt you, and I was wrong.”

“Eddie—”

“And it was stupid of me. I don’t know why I ever thought that.. you wouldn’t understand. I was just so worried that if I told you— that you’d see me for the coward I am. I was so afraid that you’d realise that I’m not who you think I am.. and that you’ll realise that you don’t love me. I was afraid— I didn’t want to lose you. But I nearly did anyway, didn’t I? Keeping my secrets to myself.” Eddie looks up nervously, “I’m sorry. I should’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

“Eds, we both fucked up. I mean, it’s not entirely your fault either. It’s mine too.”

Eddie smiles thinly, “Richie, I’m really sorry. I wish that I could undo everything.”

“I don’t.” Richie replies firmly, “Everything that we’ve been through— I don’t like it, but it was something we overcame together.” framing Eddie’s face in his hands, he says against Eddie’s lips, “I love you, Eddie. I love you so fucking much, Eds. I wish you knew. Wish I could show you.”

Eddie tilts his head to kiss Richie, slow and sweetly. “I know Richie, because I love you the same way.”

For the first time in a while, Richie truly believes it. There’s not a shred of doubt left in his head. Even if Eddie doesn’t say it as often, even if they aren’t always on the same page, he knows with absolute certainty now: Eddie loves him every bit as much as Richie loves Eddie.

“We’re going to work things out,” Richie says softly, “We’re going to be alright.”

Eddie nods, “We’re going to be alright.” he repeats with a small smile on his lips.

They spend a few more minutes with their foreheads against each other’s, listening to their quiet breaths and feeling each other’s body pressed together. It’s not sexual, there’s no need or desire to do anything but stay there and soak up each other’s presence. To appreciate the things that were said and the possibilities that have just been opened to them.

Eddie moves away eventually, stretching his back as he asks, “What do you want to do now?”

“Is that offer for a cup of hot chocolate still on the table?”

“Yeah, it is.” Eddie says with another private smile of his, already climbing off the bed.

Eddie ends up making two cups of hot chocolate, although one cup is obscenely covered with torched marshmallows while one remains naked with its contents obviously less concentrated. Eddie still gives Richie shit for how much sugar his hot chocolate needs, and Richie laughs it off as always, waving it away with a hand to Eddie’s neck and a kiss on his lips. At Eddie’s request, they take their cups with them on a walk to the barrens, one hand holding onto each other while another holds onto the mug.

It’s a nice stroll in the barrens in the early morning, before the sun is up. Although it’s still dark outside, they’ve walked this path enough for it to become something of a muscle memory, knowing where to step and where to turn. There’s light bantering, as usual, because it wouldn’t be Richie and Eddie if they weren’t bickering about some asinine topic.

The early spring wind is more merciful than the winter ones that have just passed, but wearing only their thin outerwear, Richie and Eddie huddle close together, trying to soak in the other’s body warmth. Richie throws an arm around Eddie, while Eddie lets his head rest against Richie’s shoulder, the both of them watching the moonlight reflect off the uneven surface of the water a few feet from them. Insects cry loudly at night, and the water roars louder in the quiet of the dark.

“Fucking hate Derry,” Eddie comments detachedly, sipping on his drink, “But Derry’s got some pretty nice places.”

“Derry’s got some pretty nice people.” Richie adds, winking at Eddie. Eddie stares back, unimpressed.

“You’d better not be chasing other Derry people, Richie. I swear to god, I’ll go no contact on you when I wake up.”

_When_ I wake up, not if. That makes Richie’s heart sing.

Richie makes a cross over his heart before kissing Eddie’s forehead, and another time on the tip of his nose.

“You’re the only person in the world I have eyes for.”

Eddie brings his mug to his mouth again, taking another cautious sip that does nothing to hide the smug look on his face. He’s _preening_ , like a total asshole.

“Okay, Eds. This is where you say it back.”

“It back.”

“You’re such a sweet talker, I’m swooning over here.” Richie says wryly, taking a long sip of his drink.

Eddie rolls his eyes, “You’re the only sucker who’s ever fallen for me. Blame your low standards.”

“Hey. What did I say about shit talking about my boyfriend, huh.”

“It’s not shit talk if it’s just facts.”

“No. My boyfriend, Eddie Kaspbrak, is the most incredible and amazing person ever. And no, I will not be accepting criticisms at this point of time or ever.”

Eddie keeps quiet for a few moments, quietly sipping his drink while sneaking glimpses at Richie.

“It’s not true.”

“What?”

“That your boyfriend is the most amazing person.”

“Dude, I literally just said that I would not be taking any—”

“Because _my_ boyfriend is the most amazing, patient, unbelievably incredible person in the entire universe.”

Richie closes his mouth, feeling his face heat up as Eddie looks right at him wearing a tiny smirk.

“And no,” Eddie continues, his smirk turning into a shit-eating grin, “I will not be taking any criticism at this point of time. Or ever, actually.”

“Fuck, Eds.” Richie exhales shakily, putting his cup away so that he can scoop Eddie’s face into his hands and _kiss_ him. Eddie squeals before he closes his eyes and leans in, deepening the kiss with happy, soft sounds escaping from him.

They spend a long time kissing each other, sometimes their kisses get friskier and their hands start fluttering over each other. Other kisses remain slow and languid, often breaking away to smile and laugh and dive back for another round of playful kisses.

When the black canvas above them starts turning into a dark navy, Eddie pulls himself away with one last suck on Richie’s lips.

“Okay, okay. We’re not doing anything here, Richie.”

“We’re not?”

Eddie gives Richie an unamused look, “No. And besides, I think our drinks are getting cold.”

“They got cold long ago. Can we continue making out?”

“No.” Eddie says, wagging his finger in disapproval, “The sunrise is starting. I hardly get to watch sunrises, much less with you. So, let’s watch it.”

“Fine.” Richie grumbles, straightening up so that Eddie can lean back on his chest. “But let it be known that I’m not happy that I’m getting cockblocked by the fucking sun of all things.”

Eddie giggles, snuggling back into Richie. Richie lets his arm cross over Eddie’s stomach, pulling him closer.

“Hey.” Eddie says, tilting his head back to look at Richie. Richie looks down with a smile spreading across his face. He brushes Eddie’s hair off his forehead with a gentle hand.

“Hey.”

“Richie..” Eddie trails off, blinking slowly, “There’s— I left something. For you. I— I hoped that I would never need to. I mean, I left something for you, hoping that I’d never get the chance to give it to you. But..” he gives a half-smile, “It’s in a box, under—”

“Your bedside table,” Richie finishes quietly.

“Yeah.” Eddie says, “That’s the one.”

Richie doesn’t want to know what’s inside. He doesn’t feel a need to, anymore. Back when they were still distant and drifting from each other, Richie believed that that box held something important to unlocking the mystery behind everything. But now that he knows that Eddie had always meant to give Richie the box on a day like this?

Richie doesn’t want to know what’s inside anymore.

“I’m scared.” Eddie admits quietly. Despite the blank expression he’s wearing, his eyes search Richie’s for strength. “I’m really scared, Richie.”

“I know,” Richie says, “But you’re brave, Eddie. I know you are.”

Eddie smiles weakly, “Will you wait for me?”

Richie doesn’t know why he wants to cry, but he does.

“Yeah. Of course, Eds.”

“You’ll wait for me for centuries?”

“Yeah. Of course, Eds.”

Eddie’s eyes dart towards the sky for a brief moment, “Do you really think I can be brave on my own? Without you.. I— I don’t know if I can.”

“Yeah. Of course, Eds.” Richie’s voice breaks. His eyes prickle with tears, closing it so that he doesn’t cry. “You’re brave, Eds. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.”

When Richie opens his eyes, he sees Eddie smiling back at him. Eddie’s eyes are filled with tears as well. “Will you tell me that you love me?”

“I love you, Eddie. I love you so much, I wish you knew.”

Eddie closes his eyes at the same time that his tears begin running. In a tight voice, Eddie says, “I know, Richie. Because I love you the same way.”

Richie tilts his face down to kiss Eddie’s lips again, knowing that it will be the last time for a long time. Pulling away, Eddie smiles brilliantly at Richie, eyes in crescents with wrinkles at the edges. One of Richie’s tears falls onto Eddie’s face, which he wipes away tenderly.

Sniffling, Eddie snuggles back into Richie’s chest, holding onto Richie’s hands tightly. The sun begins its energetic ascent, throwing the sky into striking shades of pink and orange. It’s the type of sunrises that Richie likes— something loud and explosive, setting the sky ablaze with a wildfire that spreads as far as the eye can see. It reminds Richie of Eddie: something that’s full of life, something that was meant to shine on it’s own.

When the sun is higher up in the sky and the wildness of its awakening has faded away, Richie looks down at his lap. He sees his legs spread out in a V and Eddie’s half-finished cup of hot chocolate lying next to him, outside of the V.

If Richie tries hard enough, he can almost see the way that Eddie’s arm stretches across his thigh, holding onto the handle of the mug loosely with his other hand in Richie’s, leaning back with a satisfied smile that Richie only sees in the most intimate moments of their relationship. The one that Eddie wears when he’s truly at peace with who he is and where he is.

Instead, Richie feels the missing weight on his chest where Eddie was a second ago, sees the space where Eddie should be and isn’t anymore.

For the first time in years, Richie is alone in dreamspace.

_“I think.. I think that I should have told you. I think that you would have understood, if I told you. Earlier.”_

_Zzz._

_“I made a lot of mistakes. And I’m sorry.”_

_Zzz._

_“But I want to try again with you. I want to start over again with you.”_

_Zzz._

_“Out there— in the real world.”_

Nothing in dreamspace has been the same since Eddie left a week ago.

Sure, Richie still makes the bed how Eddie makes it every morning. The kitchen equipment is still in the same places that Eddie arranges them in. The mini mart is still well stocked with all the usual groceries they argue about. Even Eddie’s Oats and Cinnamon Crunch Cereal is still there.

But the bed is never as impeccably made as Eddie used to do it. There’s always a corner where the sheets don’t always spread out completely, and the blankets don’t fold nicely into sharp rectangles the way Eddie’s do.

The kitchen is quiet with only the sound of the toaster and coffee machine working in the morning. There’s no _good mornings_ , or no useless debates about the superiority of wholegrain or white bread. There is only Richie sitting on his high chair, nursing a cup of black coffee by himself.

There are no more races down the mini mart aisles. There is no one blaming Richie for purposefully setting the shelves much higher than they need to be, in places only freakishly tall people can reach. There is only Richie carrying a handbasket— since he only needs to take whatever he needs now— quietly moving through the aisles like a ghost.

Almost everything looks the same as when Eddie was here. But nothing is the same, because Eddie isn’t here and Richie doesn’t know how to fill in the Eddie-shaped empty space that haunts him.

So he rewatches all the movies and TV series that they watched together, remembering all the little comments that Eddie used to make. _Oh, he’s a little bitch, isn’t he?_ or _fucking hell this show is filled with idiots I swear_. He still laughs when he remembers how Eddie used to scream at jump scares, even the predictable ones, and how he’d spill popcorn onto their bed. He still remembers the way that Eddie tears up at dog shows which always ends with the dog dying.

_It’s never a dog show if a dog doesn’t die_ , Eddie complained bitterly at the end of the movie. Richie doesn’t remember what he said, but he remembers the eyeroll he got that Eddie always does when Richie makes some stupid and meaningless remark.

When summer rolls around, Richie takes longer swims in the Kenduskeag just to occupy his time. There’s no sarcastic comments on how awful his backflips are, there’s no concerned glances when Richie complains about a budding sunburn, there’s no one trying to pull him down underwater to sneak a few kisses. There is only Richie floating on the surface of the water with his limbs spread out, passively challenging the sun to hit him with its hardest and hottest rays of light.

He gets a bad sunburn that summer. He doesn’t tan the way Eddie does. All his skin knows to do is to turn an aggressive red before it shrivels into brownish patches of skin that flicks away when he turns too abruptly, when he starts scratching at the itch under the healing skin.

When it hurts for him to even wear a shirt around his neck, and when he can’t pull on any pants without hissing in pain, he forgoes wearing clothes altogether. He can imagine the scandalised look on Eddie’s face if he were here, the outrage in his voice when he sees Richie parading around in his birthday suit before he whips out the aloe vera gel he keeps in the fridge, dabbing it on Richie’s skin in a painstakingly gently way that is so much like Eddie and not like him that Richie wants to cry.

But because Eddie isn’t here, Richie takes out the gel himself and applies it. It’s still as cooling and soothing as ever, but it’s not the same because his touch is rougher and harsher than Eddie’s.

Richie has spent too much time watching and helping Eddie in the kitchen to not be able to do anything himself. Meals are kept simple because there isn’t much that Richie feels like eating by himself. Sometimes he skips cooking in favour of instant food again. Those are the days when being in the kitchen is too much for him. The kitchen was never really his to begin with. Without Eddie around, it feels too invasive for him to be around on some days.

Sleeping comes slightly harder to Richie without Eddie in their bed. He’s so used to spooning or being spooned by Eddie that sleeping by himself feels weird. It feels like he should be waiting for someone who he knows isn’t coming back. Even if his mind is tired, his body refuses to sleep until there’s someone else in the bed. So he ends up sleeping when the sun rises, when his body is too tired to stay awake any longer and succumbs to sleep. Those are the good days when being in their bed is still manageable.

On the bad days when he realises that Eddie’s smell is fading from his pillow, Richie wanders over to Eddie’s room to cry into his bed there. It feels both familiar and wrong to be there, because they’ve long moved on from this phase of their lives. But Richie doesn’t know where else he can go that still retains Eddie’s presence. Their room is beginning to feel like a stranger to him, and Eddie’s room is the one last place where he used to frequent most with Eddie.

It hurts that the places they’ve built together are slowly fading away from him. They’re being reclaimed by some other entity— dreamspace itself.

Summer fades away to autumn in the blink of an eye. Maybe it’s partly because Richie no longer pays attention to the change in the seasons the way he used to when Eddie was around— there was no longer any need to. There was no one he was going for long walks with anymore, there was no need to prepare food and drinks and maybe sun lotion if they were going to be spending the entire day under the sun.

Eddie’s smell has completely faded from all the beds and sheets in dreamspace. Richie cries when he realises this one night when he buries his face into Eddie’s pillow and finds that it no longer smells like Eddie— it smells like himself.

But all of this still lies within the lines that Richie has drawn for himself. He’s allowed to lie on Eddie’s bed and look at the Smiths poster that they’ve put there more than a decade ago— faded and worn at the edges. He’s allowed to sleep on Eddie’s side of the bed and imagine what Eddie would say if he saw the way that Richie curls into a fetal position, much like the way he used to do when Richie wasn’t around.

But what he isn’t allowed to do is to snoop around Eddie’s stuff. He won’t let himself look through Eddie’s private belongings. That’s a line he draws for himself.

But then he stumbles into Eddie’s side of the bed one night after a round of alcohol. Being around Eddie always made him realise something about himself. As it turns out, Eddie’s absence is still making him learn new things about himself. Like how he’s never had a drop of alcohol with Eddie around. He’s never yearned for it, never even _thought_ about it.

But now, with Eddie gone and the quiet becoming almost a physical presence, suffocating him, Richie feels that same need wash up at the shores of his consciousness again. With an almost empty bottle of wine— his second bottle of the night— he fumbles with the door, almost falling face first into the floor when it swings open more easily than he estimated. In his drunken stupor, he ends up grossly overestimating the distance between the door and the bed, ending up kicking his foot against something under Eddie’s bedside table and falling onto the bed gracelessly.

“Fuck. Oh fuck, that hurts.” Richie says, rubbing at his big toe. It takes him a minute to realise that there’s a box dislodged from under the bedside table, lying on its side with its contents spilled across the floor. Richie squints in the dark, trying to make out what it is.

Oh, what the hell. Richie imagines that the light is on, because there’s no way that he’s making it back to the door just to flick the fucking switch on. When he opens his eyes, the room is brightly illuminated and the contents of the box becomes clear. They’re thumbdrives, small and sleek ones that Richie remembers Eddie holding onto that night.

It's the same box that Eddie hid away from Richie all those months ago.

_“Richie.. There’s— I left something. For you. I— I hoped that I would never need to. I mean, I left something for you, hoping that I’d never get the chance to give it to you. But.. It’s in a box, under—”_

“Your bedside table,” Richie repeats, barely audible to himself. He’d forgotten all about this box until now.

With some difficulty coordinating his hands, he scoops them up to dump them back into the box. Nope, still not gonna snoop through Eddie’s stuff. He’s _really_ curious about it, but remembering the distant look in Eddie’s eyes that night that he told Richie about it scares him more than he wants to admit.

He’s afraid that if he looks through the thumbdrive, it will really be the end of everything. Because this is something Eddie prepared, left for Richie in the event that Eddie goes away. And although that day had long passed, Richie is still having trouble accepting that Eddie’s really gone.

If he looks through these thumbdrives.. it’ll be real. That Eddie’s gone, and Richie’s really alone in dreamspace.

But then he notices that a sticker has dropped off from one of the thumb drives, and he’s going to need to find that unlabelled one from the box of identical looking thumb drives. Groaning internally, Richie picks up the sticker, pressing his index finger to the sticky part and flipping it over to get a look at the label.

_Summer 3 - Summer 4_

The handwriting, written in black ink, is neat and almost squarish, yet somehow cursive in how it drags along to the next letter, letting its tail linger on the paper. It suits Eddie, Richie thinks. Something ordinary looking yet so unique in its plainness.

He picks up the first thumb drive in the box, turning it to check for a label. The one pasted on it is written in red ink, which gets Richie’s attention.

_Summer 8 - Summer 9_

Now his interest is piqued. He fishes in the box for another thumbdrive, picking it up and running a thumb over the black ink on the label.

_Summer 6 - Summer 7_

_These aren’t just thumbdrives,_ Richie thinks with realisation dawning on him, _they’re memories._

_“Wish that I could have this forever. Watching you kiss me.”_

Was Eddie.. recording his own memories?

_“I was just thinking that.. I want to be able to rewatch this anytime.”_

Was he recording his memories to rewatch them when Richie was away?

With trembling hands, Richie loads them all back in the box and carries it to their bed, heart thumping for the first time in months with excitement and nervousness racing through his blood.

With great haste in his actions, he sets up the laptop and connects it to the TV across the room, plugging in a random thumb drive from the box. The label reads _Summer 1 - Summer 2_ in red ink.

The thumb drive loads up on the laptop slowly, each file taking a few seconds to load one after another. Scanning through the file names, it becomes abundantly clear to Richie that each file is a video of a day in the time indicated on the label. He clicks the first video in the thumb drive.

Immediately, a video loads on the TV. The screen fills with an image of a comic book with a hand that turns the page every minute or so. Just behind the comic book, Richie can see the line of bottles on Eddie’s desk. Sunlight pours into the room and there are sharp cries of insects buzzing outside. The footage looks too much like an amateur homemade video, except that the footage is not grainy and the audio is not grating on his ears.

It feels like Richie is seeing directly through Eddie’s eyes.

When many minutes pass without much happening— just Eddie turning the pages quietly— Richie brings his cursor forward, dragging the little circle until he suddenly sees movement in the frame.

He sees himself standing in the middle of the room, back facing Eddie. From Eddie’s angle, all he can see is the back of his head, messy curls recognisable anywhere.

It’s their first proper meeting.

Richie has to press pause when he hears Eddie shriek into the camera, the video shaking like a terrible earthquake has struck. Suddenly hearing Eddie’s voice again strikes a chord in him that pulls on all the emotions he’d been repressing for the last couple of months. Everything is resurfacing and it’s too much to continue watching.

He misses Eddie so fucking much it’s manifesting itself physically.

With his heart lodged in his throat, he presses on the play button. It’s almost like he remembered it, but from a different perspective, because in all of his memories he’s been looking at Eddie. This time, he’s looking at how Eddie watches him, observes the little twitches of Richie’s lips he was never aware of.

He doesn’t get much sleep that night. He watches video after video, hugging his legs to his chest with a box of tissue by his side. Even if he’s analysed his own memories, turned them inside out and dissected them into their atoms, watching Eddie’s memories of what happened in dreamspace is so different. Listening to Eddie’s voice again, so clear and fired up, makes Richie tear up more than he’d like to admit.

It takes a couple of weeks but Richie learns that the red and black labelling were not random. Red labels are the ones where Richie is around, and the black are the ones where he’s gone. Richie watches all of them through at least once, but it’s the red ones that he rewatches over and over again.

Watching Eddie’s memories brings new perspectives to what Richie already experienced. He never saw the way that Eddie hesitated on adding more butter to Richie’s toast, but always ends up spreading another layer just because Richie likes it buttery. He never knew how Eddie always packed different types of sunscreen lotions, just because Richie got sunburnt easily. He never knew how Eddie woke up in the middle of the night in their bed and lightly brushed away the hair falling onto his face.

But it’s not always the good things that Eddie records, though. There are the ugly memories as well. There was the first fight that they had on Richie’s first birthday in dreamspace, and Richie finally sees the way that he’d been acting through Eddie’s lenses. Eddie was right: he _was_ sulking. But it also shows him how many times Eddie had snuck glances at Richie, the way he tried to get closer to Richie discreetly.

He also learns how every fight of theirs hurts Eddie more than he ever knew. The pacing that Eddie did in his own room, the way he’d gnaw at his fingernails in thought, picking at them like he was trying to peel them away afterwards. He saw the way that Eddie pressed tissues to his eyes, the way he cleaned himself up before he went to find Richie to apologise for losing his temper. All along Richie had believed that Eddie never cried about any of the arguments they had, but here was all the evidence to say otherwise.

The videos that Richie hated the most— even more than the ones documenting their arguments— are the ones where Eddie would crawl into Richie’s bed, hugging his pillow to his face while he tossed and turned in bed. He always hated how helpless he felt watching Eddie miss him through the screen, his stomach turning into lead when Eddie mumbled a few words to fake Jeff.

_“I really miss him, Jeff.”_

Richie doesn’t finish watching those videos.

Autumn says goodbye with a sad wave of its leaves across the rocky path in the barrens, when the water flowing in the Kenduskeag feels more vicious. When the first snow starts to fall, Richie decides that he doesn’t want to spend his days in dreamspace moping around anymore. Eddie had waited years for him like this, Richie should be able to make himself productive as well.

He tries to take up knitting, which doesn’t end up too well. He doesn’t have the patience to sit down for hours on end, and usually ends up giving up soon after he’s just gotten the loop around the needle.

Baking goes a little bit better, although it’s tremendously boring without Eddie around. Still, some of the bakes he makes are pretty delicious, and he ends up eating them all in one go instead of keeping them aside for the next day.

Richie goes on long walks along the barrens, huddled in thick coats and jeans. He doesn’t loiter around as much as he used to when Eddie was around, but it gets easier to sit in the same spaces where they’ve been before.

It gets easier to accept that Eddie is truly gone from dreamspace.

It doesn’t mean that Richie doesn’t miss him any less. Richie still misses him as much as he did the day that Eddie disappeared, but he knows that it’s not going to be permanent. They’ll meet again one day, and when that day comes, they’ll be able to have everything they’ve always had here, but in the real world.

It’s a slightly warmer winter day when Richie wakes up with the distinct knowledge that this would be his last day in dreamspace. He doesn’t really know how he’s so sure of this, but the knowledge is as certain as knowing that the white background of dreamspace was really the void, like knowing that 2 plus 2 always makes 4.

He gets up and goes about his day as usual, which is to say that he spends it baking and cleaning and going for a walk along the barrens, only making a quick detour to Eddie’s room to put the box of thumbdrives on Eddie’s desk, as if he’s returning it back to Eddie. He won’t be needing it anymore. He’s going back to the real world.

He takes a last look at the room which he’s thought about so much in the last few years in dreamspace, the place where he first met Eddie, before shutting the door for the final time.

Richie drops by his old room quickly to wave fake Jeff goodbye.

“Thanks for being my friend, old bud.”

If fake Jeff could smile, he’d be beaming back at Richie, waving his goodbye as well. Distantly, Richie thinks that this is what growing up must feel like. Feeling somewhat sad and regretful to say goodbye to old friends you’ve made, but moving forward with anticipation for what the future brings.

Richie goes to the kitchen to make himself a cup of hot chocolate for old time’s sake. Then thinking, what the hell, I’m already here, he makes another cup that’s thinner than his. He piles on all the marshmallows on his cup and torches it expertly, but leaves the other cup purposefully naked. He drinks it slowly, savouring each mouthful as he looks around the kitchen one last time, trying to memorise everything as it is. It was the first thing that they built together, and although Richie is sad that this is all going to disappear, he was excited to build another kitchen with Eddie someday.

He pours away the hot chocolate that’s gone cold in Eddie’s mug and washes both cups, drying them before slotting them back into their usual positions on the rack.

And when he finally slides into their bed for the final time, he takes his favourite photo of the both of them with him to bed— the one with them in the hammock, with him kissing the back of Eddie’s head. He pulls Eddie’s pillow into his arm, imagining that it was Eddie he was spooning, while holding onto the photo with the other hand.

He stares at the photo until his vision becomes blurry, when the dark edges start creeping into the centre. He yawns one last time and snuggles into the pillow, sighing contentedly.

They’ve had a wonderful life together in dreamspace, but their time in dreamspace was up. It was time to go back to the real world. No more hiding away, no more secrets.

Richie falls asleep with a smile on his face, feeling the familiar lurch in his chest, the familiar cloud in his mind fogging over everything.

_“And I’m happy— I’m indescribably happy. Meeting you in here— in dreamspace.. it’s one of the best things that has ever happened to me.”_

_Zzz._

_“Before you say ‘one of the best things’? Yeah, asshole. One of. Because—”_

_Zzz._

_“Because I’m sure that meeting you again, out there? In the real world? That’s going to be the best thing that’s ever going to happen to me.”_

When Richie opens his eyes this time, Jeff remains a blurred spot on his ceiling, recognisable only by the way it stands out against the white. Richie finds his vision blurred with unshed tears. In many ways, it was waking up from a beautiful dream and realising that all of it was really over.

He cries softly for a while, curled up on his bed that is both his bed and not his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of abuse (Bev mentions her father's abuse briefly and Richie recalls seeing her bruises).
> 
> sidenote: Thank you S, for all the times that I wanted to abandon this fic, and for all the support you gave to me that helped me crawl through the finish line of this chapter. Maybe you don't know how much it means to me, but it means the world.
> 
> Next chapter will be the last chapter (epilogue) and if you're still here, thank you for reading.


	5. 22

_Like I'm falling out of bed  
_ _From a long and vivid dream  
_ _Finally I'm free of all the weight I've been carrying_

_(Separator, Radiohead)_

It’s been one month since Richie left dreamspace.

At first, it had been difficult to adjust back to the real world, all with the knowledge that he was never going to go back to dreamspace ever again. Even if all those years he spent with Eddie had only spanned 4 days in the real world, it was still _years_ of time he spent in dreamspace. Growing up in there, growing _old_ in there, and suddenly coming back into a young body again had been incredibly difficult.

But that wasn’t the most difficult part of adjusting back: it was not knowing when Eddie would call.

The morning after he woke up, Bill had sent a text message to Richie.

_**Unknown  
**Hey Richie, this is Bill. I hope you've been well. Eddie woke up. He’s doing great so far, he says he’ll call you when he’s done sorting out his stuff._

And although there had been many moments when Richie had picked up his phone with his thumb hovering over the call button, he always ended up stuffing his phone back into the back pocket of his jeans. He doesn’t want to rush Eddie, he doesn’t want to push anything before it’s done.

Eddie needs time to recover and get his things together, and Richie can wait without waiting. He’ll wait centuries if he has to.

The remaining two days of Stan and Patty’s visit passes in a much better atmosphere than the day before— mostly because Richie was back to himself. He wasn’t brooding anymore, he wasn’t worrying about something he had no control over anymore. He could be back in the present, cracking jokes about Stan and hitting on Ben without any real intention.

For the first time in what felt like months, Richie could feel happy again.

On their part, no one brings up Richie’s weird behaviour on the first day. It isn’t until Stan and Patty are packing up to leave that Patty wanders into the kitchen, looking for an extra ziplock bag for her wet toiletries that she catches Richie alone, leaning against the kitchen counter with a cigarette between his fingers.

“‘Sup?” Richie says, raising his hand in greeting. Patty smiles goodnaturedly, walking towards him. She stops a distance away, leaning against the kitchen counter as well. It’s oddly reminiscent of that afternoon with Bev six days ago, but instead of sharing a cup of coffee and a cigarette, it’s a lovely quiet that they’re sharing.

Patty side glances at Richie, “I was looking for an extra ziplock bag. Beverly told me that I could find it here.”

Richie takes a drag, blowing it out slowly. “Yup,” he says, gesturing to the bottom row of cupboards, “It’s somewhere there, I think. I’m not familiar with what goes in there, though.”

Patty laughs, “Yeah,” she says, “Beverly said that too.”

Richie smiles despite himself, “I’ll help you search for them in a minute.”

“Oh, there’s no need to.” Patty shakes her head, “I know where they are.”

Richie drops his hand, turning his head to look at Patty. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment while he studies her eyes. “Is there something else you were looking for?”

“Well,” Patty begins, tucking a lock of hair behind her ears with a shy smile, “I hope I’m not being intrusive by asking..” she glances up, “Did you get your answer?”

“What answer?” Richie frowns in confusion.

“If you prefer a life where happiness determines wellbeing, or a life where desire fulfilment determines wellbeing.”

“What is this? Like a follow-up survey?”

Patty suppresses her laugh, “Maybe.”

Richie smiles back at her, “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only person who has ever engaged with me in a conversation about Philosophy outside of the classroom.”

“Really?” Richie says, “Wow. Not even Stan?”

Patty’s gaze drifts over to Stan, looking at him fondly. “Stan’s a great listener. But, in the end, he’s not someone who enjoys thinking too much about such topics. He prefers listening to your thoughts than having an active discussion about it.”

Richie nods, “That’s definitely Stan all right.”

They share a short laugh together, settling into a new silence before Richie nods again. His eyes dart out of the kitchen, looking across the room to the couch, where Ben and Bev are helping Stan to fold and roll his clothes into the luggage.

Bev reaches over to say something into Ben’s ear, making him laugh and pinch her cheeks with all the affection in his eyes, and it makes Richie smile— that they found each other, that they can be this happy together.

It makes him happy too.

“Yeah,” Richie says, bringing the cigarette to his lips. He inhales slowly with his gaze still fixed on his friends before he exhales, stubbing the cigarette out against the ashtray near the trash bin by the sink— a newly acquired gift, courtesy of Stan. “About your question: I think I did.”

Patty waits quietly with a patient smile on her face. Richie thinks that she’s a lot like Bev in how well they can read people’s moods, in the calm they exude.

“I think,” Richie begins, cocking his head as he folds his arms. He looks briefly at Patty before looking back at his friends at the couch, “That they’re both wrong.”

“Oh.” Patty raises a curious brow.

“I think that there’s no one size fits all theory of wellbeing.” Richie says simply, “Wellbeing is a combination of many things. Sometimes, it’s happiness; other times, it’s desire. Maybe not even both, maybe it’s the third option, or a fourth option. It’s a lot of things.”

Patty nods.

“But.. you know what I’ve been thinking?” Richie says, “I think that sometimes, all of those things intersect together in a single entity— a single moment, maybe.”

“And what’s that?” Patty asks curiously, craning her neck to catch Richie’s eye. Richie gives her a crooked smile.

“Don’t know yet,” Richie says honestly, “I’ll tell you when I find out.”

And after Stan and Patty leave, after Richie goes for the radio interview and gets a call back a week later, after Bill sends him another text to inform him that Eddie’s been discharged, and day after day that Richie doesn’t hear anything else from Bill, Mike or Eddie..

Life goes on.

“Are you scared?” Stan asks over the phone three weeks later. It’s slightly after Richie’s second day of work, co-hosting the 10PM slot on a relatively quieter channel, and Richie is walking down the familiar blocks before his flat after midnight.

“Scared?” Richie looks around, “Of what?”

“That you won’t hear from Eddie.”

“Why the fuck are you so straightforward all the time, Staniel? A little sugarcoating once in a while would be nice.”

“You don’t need it.” Stan says blankly, “So, are you?”

Richie shrugs to himself, “I guess I was. But, no, not really.”

“Why?”

“Because..” Richie looks up at the dark sky. Despite the lousy light provided by the streetlamps lining the roads, it’s still impossible to see any stars twinkling in the night sky. “He said that we’ll be alright. And I believe him— we’ll be alright.”

It isn’t until another week later that he gets a call from Bill’s phone.

Without thinking too much about it, Richie picks it up groggily. “Bill?” he croaks, “It’s _seven_. In the AM. Why the ever loving fuck are you even awake?”

A familiar voice chuckles over the phone, but it’s not Bill’s, nor is it Mike’s. Instead, it’s a voice that he hasn’t heard in a long time, something young and carefree and _excited._

“Eddie.” Richie breathes out, hit by a sudden bout of clarity and awakeness. He scrambles up on his bed, fumbling for his glasses even if it won’t help him do anything over the phone.

“Richie,” Eddie says over the phone softly, with just a hint of nervousness underlying his voice.

“Eddie.” Richie says again. There’s a prickling sensation behind his eyes as his heart stills for a split second when Eddie’s voice comes over the receiver. “It’s really you.”

“Yeah, Richie. It’s really me.” Eddie chuckles dryly.

“Don’t be a fucking asshole, Eds. It’s seven in the morning and—” _you’re really here,_ “It’s not the start of my one single braincell’s working hours yet.”

Eddie laughs loudly and Richie can see the way his eyes roll as he fights a smile, “Are you sure about that one braincell you claim to have?”

“Who’s being the turd now, huh?”

“Well, if I remember correctly, _somebody_ once said that you’re the big turd, while I’m the little turd. So, yeah, strictly speaking, it’s still you being a turd.”

“Yeah, what the fuck, Eds. I can’t believe that you wanted to have a _criteria_ to compare our turdiness. And— no— you know what I can’t believe? I can’t believe that you remembered that conversation.”

“Of course I remember it,” Eddie says, dropping his voice, “I remember everything we talked about, Richie. It’s hard not to, isn’t it? When you’ve watched them over and over again.”

Richie’s smile fades away. His hands start to grow sweaty as he adjusts his glasses.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “It’s hard not to.”

Eddie’s breathing pauses for a second.

“Are you okay?” Richie asks, breaking the tension, “How’s your arm?”

“Well..” Eddie drawls, “It’s better. It’s in a cast, but the doctors said that it’s all looking good. I should be able to get out of the cast in another few weeks.”

“Aw,” Richie says, disappointed, “I won’t even get to sign it?”

“Knowing you, you’d probably draw a dick on it.”

“Then you don’t know me very well, Eds. I wouldn’t draw _a_ dick on it. I’d draw dicks all over it.”

Eddie sighs exasperatedly, “Dickwad.” he says fondly. They chuckle over the phone for a few seconds before Eddie says, “But, you know.. you might.”

“Might what?”

“Get to sign it. Before I remove it.”

Richie’s breath hitches.

“I just need a few more days to pack my stuff— I’m currently freeloading in Mike’s farm, using my broken arm as an excuse not to do anything. Bill’s here too. He’s the one actually earning his keep on this farm.” Eddie chuckles playfully, “But after I’ve packed up..”

“After you’ve packed up..?”

Eddie huffs, “Are you really going to make me finish my sentences?”

“Obviously,” Richie says, “Who do I look like to you? Professor X?”

“Give it another 20 years, yeah, you’d look like him.” Eddie says, “But it’s okay, because I’ll still love you then.”

Richie freezes. It’s not the first time he’s heard it, but it’s the first time he’s heard it in the real world, and somehow that makes all the difference.

Richie’s eyes fill up with tears as he asks in a small voice, “You do?”

“Yeah, Richie.” Eddie whispers softly over the phone, “Every possible world—”

“Every possible universe.”

“That’s right.” Eddie says tightly, sounding on the verge of tears himself. “I love you, Richie. And I can’t wait to meet you again. Properly.”

“Me too.” Richie laughs weakly, closing his eyes as he wraps his hands around his phone, wishing it was Eddie’s hand that he was holding onto instead.

With the dull light seeping into his room through his opened curtains, and distant sounds of cars driving by, the city starts to wake up as a small, private smile grows on his face. It’s just a gentle slope on one side of his lips, but it’s the one he learned about only after meeting Eddie, the one that only Eddie gets to see.

And right now, he can see the same smile on Eddie’s face, miles and miles away on an unfamiliar farm.

“I love you, Eds.” Richie says quietly, “I love you so much, I wish you knew.”

There’s faint sounds of birds chirping in the background over the phone, as Eddie takes in a shaky breath. “I know, Richie,” Eddie says, just as softly.

As Richie looks out of his window, he imagines Eddie looking out of the window in a nondescript room on the farm, framed by the orange glow of the sunrise. He imagines the warmth of the cloudless sky connecting them together, where they’re finally in the same place.

“Because I love you the same way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote 100k+ of reddie, so I would like to write a long endnote too (just because my endnotes are pieces of my life that are important for me to remember when I forget all of this in the future):
> 
> This fic is an idea I’ve hoarded for 5 years, back when I had neither the time nor confidence in myself to write it out. During my undergrad studies, I promised myself to finish one of the two ideas I had in mind, and in my funemployment days, while writing the other idea, I wrote the prologue of this fic on a whim (chapter 1) and I loved it so much that I decided to write this out properly. What was initially set to be a 30-50k idea blossomed into 115k of posted fic, and 178k words on my google docs. That’s around 63k of discarded words, still much longer than my longest work before this! (So many ideas and conversations that I loved but didn't work.. RIP)
> 
> In many ways, this fic is an ode to closing a chapter of my life and opening a new chapter, which makes it all the more personal to me. And listening to Radiohead songs while writing this, the band that I’ve loved for a decade now, that’s followed me from my awkward teens into an awkward adult.. It made this fic even more personal to me (if that's possible).
> 
> I would like to thank everyone who’s been here to support me. To my friends who heard me ramble on and on about this story; to prof. Z for your philosophy classes that I’ll never forget; J, for all the very long relationship counselling and helping me to brainstorm timelines; and S, for being my cornerstone on this journey. You’ve been there every night I sit in front of my laptop feeling lousy, you’ve read every single draft of this, and you’ve helped me on parts where I had no direction and given me the confidence to post every chapter when my anxiety skyrockets. This fic was not possible without the immense support you’ve given to me, and I’m so grateful to you.
> 
> And lastly, thank you to you reading this. It took 5 years of imagining it in secret, 3.5 months of writing and about 1 month + of posting, and I'm so happy to be able to share this with you. Thank you for giving me your precious time and your support. It means a lot more than I can describe, and I hope that you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. :^)


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